


The Wayward Seas

by Targaryens_and_Olympians



Series: Percy Porthitis [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, The Kane Chronicles - Rick Riordan
Genre: Ancient China, Ancient Greece, BAMF Female Characters, Environmentalism, F/F, F/M, Gen, Girl becomes Woman, Immortal!Percy, Lots of Sex, M/M, Multi, Philosophy, Ptolemaic Egypt, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roman Republic, Sex, Slavery, Underage - Freeform, War, alright that's enough tags, battles, god-like beings, grey characters, grey!Annabeth, grey!Percy, hoplites, nerd shit, so much fucking philosophy, urban planning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-01-31 11:06:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Targaryens_and_Olympians/pseuds/Targaryens_and_Olympians
Summary: Fleeing the never-ending wars that scar Greece's heartland, Annabeth is sent by her father to the lands of the King of Asia. 'Be his Queen,' she was told. 'Be a good wife.' That was all she had ever been told. In the time of Alexander the Great, that is all a girl is allowed to be. But Annabeth wants more than that.Fighting for his life in Sicily, Jason is struggling to fight off both his enemies: Carthage and his rivals in the Roman military. As one of the youngest Tribunes ever elected, from a storied family whose honor has faded with time, Jason feels the burdens on his shoulders to not just succeed but to thrive.In Egypt, caught up in a game of politics that he does not wish to play, Carter is tasked with upholding his father's legacy in the face of the overwhelming might of the King of Asia. Through it all, Carter just wishes to be able to live a life of happiness with the woman he loves, but such a life is unavailable to him.And in Asia, Percy walks a lonely path. Given a mission by the gods, he strives every day to complete it. But it is neither an easy mission nor one that allows for his own happiness. Though he does his duty with distinction, Perseus, most of all, just wants a family.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Song for Dragons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9430127) by [Doublehex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doublehex/pseuds/Doublehex). 



**I**

 

**THE DAUGHTER OF ATHENS**

* * *

 

The city had been dying all day, labouring to deliver its last breaths as the men of Macedon besieged its walls. They had cut off supply lines to the city for even longer than they had sat outside its walls. Thus, the city had been starving for months. How long ago was it that another Macedonian sat outside these walls and demanded fealty?

But Antigonus II was not, she knew, everyone knew, Alexander reborn. He could, perhaps, strengthen or solidify his grip over Hellas, but he would be unable to move East or West. The world was changing, she knew, and Greece would no longer move the game pieces but instead be a piece itself. Chremonides, her father, all the _strategoi_ , the Assembly — none of them knew this. But she did.

Therefore, when her father had told their family the terrible, terrible truth the night before, she was not as shocked as she should have been. He had told them that no path did not lead to Antigonus ruling Athens before the sennight was out. The Spartans were no more. Worst of all, no Ptolemaic armada was coming to save them.

Although she expected defeat to a degree, the thought still made the fourteen-year-old girl sob. She didn't wish to see her city, that she loved so much — no matter how terrible it had been to her — gone. The rational part of her, the part that was her mother, told her to get over it. The city had been gone before and stood once more. It could go again and stand later.

But the people who made it her home would not live to see it, she realized. Her friends, not that she had many, but the few, like Chloe and Eupraxia. Those who had dreamed as she had, of living a life unchained from the restraints her society had forced upon them. To be able to read and write as their brothers and fathers could, to lead and think as their brothers and fathers would, to fight with their minds and limbs as their brothers and fathers did.

Now they would perish, consumed by a war for independence dependent upon another. Oh, she knew they depended upon Ptolemaic help even before her father had talked about it. She was not as helpless as the other women that quietly accepted their bondage. She had taught herself and her friends how to read in their twelfth year, learning from her father's documents. As the Athenians fought and died for their liberty – for it was not her liberty they fought for – she used their supply lines and movements to teach herself letters.

But the news that the Ptolemies were not coming to their aid was a shock to her. She had had no clue that there was ever a doubt, considering all of her father's letters had stated that the troops' movements depended upon Ptolemaic reinforcement. Annabeth had just assumed that they were coming.

The shocking news had been followed by a stunning command. Even at least an hour after the command had been issued, Annabeth still had trouble digesting it.

_'Go to Anatolia. Flee!'_

Why? Why Anatolia? Did her father not know who controlled the peninsula?

_'Annabeth, my sweet girl. In Anatolia, in the city of Perseaopolis, awaits your duty. Give yourself to the King of Asia. Be his wife. Bear his children. Be the woman you were always meant to be.'_

Now her feet pounded against pavements built by her forefathers. Her father's wife held on to her hands for dear life, her two young boys running ahead of them. All were careful not to make a sound as they tried to avoid detection.

Curfew was in place. A few guards milled about, but none had the morale to keep a vigilant watch. There was no need, either, as most people waited out the death of the city they loved with a mournful acceptance.

The quartet passed by an old materials store that Annabeth had snuck into once or twice before the war had started. That had been so long ago. There was a brief period where the war had not yet reached the city, perhaps from the time she was nine to the time she was eleven. The city had been jubilant at first, excited to throw off the chains. And then they had lost Sparta and Corinth, and things had taken a turn for the worse. The city had quieted, as if it was falling into a slumber.

As it was now.

"Come on, Annabeth, we have to keep moving, get out of the city! To the docks!" Her father's wife spoke in a hushed shout. Annabeth felt her feet stumble behind her as if they wished to remain in their birthplace. She did as well, but she knew, unlike her feet, that she could not stay. Staying meant death. Staying meant witnessing her father's death, his eventual suicide. It meant enslavement and being raped.

Though perhaps her new life held that as well.

Annabeth followed her father's wife's lead in pressing herself against a marble wall as two guards walked past. They all held their breath, even the little boys who usually were so rambunctious, pretending even in their sleep to be battle hardened soldiers. Perhaps all that pretending had finally paid off, as they obeyed their orders with Spartan discipline.

The guards walked deeper into the heart of a dying city, guarding tomorrow's corpses. Annabeth let out her deep breath. Then took another to steady herself. Her mind, at least, for her father's wife yanked her arm. Losing her balance for naught but a moment – she had always been a somewhat reflexive girl – she regained her footing and followed once more.

At this point, they were no more than a few blocks from the docks. They would make it. They would make it.

Annabeth thought of her father as she pushed herself to move quicker. Her sandals made moving fast uncomfortable. Women were not able to have the comfortable, athletic sandals men wore to gyms or wars.

She thought of her father. Her father who had always encouraged her to be her best yet had never let her achieve a fraction of what she was supposed to achieve. Her father who had, instead of keeping her close in his final moments, had sold her off to a conqueror, a god amongst men, a beast.

_'You have bled, my sweet girl. You know what that means. You are on your way to becoming a woman. You shall make a great wife and an even better mother.'_

But she had wanted none of that.

The only thing she had ever wanted was a choice, freedom; was it not the same thing the sons of Athens fought and died for? It was, however, the one thing always denied to her. Even now, as the city that had chained her began its death crawl, as the chains began to crumble, she was still denied a choice. For once she left these walls, a new set of walls, of a different city, would settle upon her wrists. A slave once more in all but name.

Her father's wife could not – nay, would not – help her now. She was a woman who neglected the fact that she was a slave. She would not help Annabeth escape the chains she failed to see. Helen would take her all the way to Antioch, where she, as a dutiful wife, would sell off her husband's daughter to the God King in exchange for ships.

Why any King would save Athens for her, she did not know. She understood that she was considered beautiful, but she did not think this King, who was said to have a hundred concubines already, would spare her more than a passing glance as he took her and gave her his children. His children that would inherit nothing, for she would not be even the most important of wives.

However, that was all in the future. The King of Asia could wait. If they made it to him, she could deal with him then. Now she had just one more block before they met the smuggler who would take them through the blockade and to the rest of her life.

Just one more block.

Annabeth used a second of reflection to turn her head.

"Goodbye Father."

 

**THE KING OF ASIA**

* * *

 

Usually he called for Piper when he was frustrated. The pliable young girl was always so eager to please that whenever he needed to take out his anger sexually, he just took the woman. She seemed to enjoy it too, so it didn't guilt his conscious like it had sometimes when he had taken cities. His conquest of Pontus was particularly bad, and he had spent days in the ocean trying to relax.

The Θάλασσα pushed in a fresh breeze. The smell of the salt invigorated him. Perhaps he could use Piper as he usually had.

Perseus shifted in his bed. He felt the sore ache on his back from working down on the streets. Perhaps he shouldn't have partaken in such activities, as was his wont as a king, but he had felt the need to. Alexandar had failed to truly create a lasting empire, but his foundations had been enough for Perseus to use his lands to create one. If menial labor for a few hours was the price to pay for an eternal kingdom, then it was a price he was willing to pay.

Piper slipped into his quarters, a loose chiton made of a more see-through material. Her large bosoms, even for such a young girl, always made his spine shiver. Her dark skin, a product of her Semitic heritage, made her a different type of exotic than the other girls he had had in his bed since beginning his conquest forty years ago. The gentle curves of her hips, and the flat belly he wished would soon round to accommodate a child for him.

"My King," she spoke, her accent causing a twitch in his cock. The door closed behind her, and she slipped off the joke of clothing she had on to allow him a glance at everything she had to offer him.

"Come here, you gorgeous woman, you." She giggled at his praise, this buxom young girl of five-and-ten years. Gods he was happy when he found her as he established Perseaopolis in the lands of old Sumer. She dropped to her hands and knees, as she knew he liked, her breasts swaying to her slow steps.

"I heard you were doing hard work today." Her words dripped down from her mouth like honey.

"It was difficult."

Indeed, getting these words out of his mouth was quite difficult. Keeping his eyes off of her was impossible – and unwanted – so he decided instead to ravage every part of her body with his eyes as she crawled to him. His throbbing, large cock tightened and hardened against his nude, sweat-coated belly.

"Let me reward you, for keeping us safe and prosperous, my King."

She reached his bed, and he slid to meet her. His feet touched the floor. His muscled, strong legs formed two parallel walls, keeping her focused on his thick cock. His hands lazily ran through her caramel hair, gripping it slightly. She kept it loose for him; he always wanted a handful to fuck her face with.

However, the young girl knew that he was not in the mood to fuck her face. She slipped her tongue out, her eyes staring up mischievously into his sea-green irises. Her soft tongue lapped up and down his sweaty phallus. He hummed in praise.

The praise seemed to excite the girl on her knees. She let a slight giggle out of her mouth and her ass wiggled happily. She planted kisses all along the shaft, her hands covering whatever her mouth could not – which ended up being a lot. Her tongue traced the mountains of veins that ran up and down his cock, like the Apennine mountains through Italia.

Her movements sent Perseus into overdrive. No longer was he just content to sit back and let her work on him. His hands dug into her head, finding themselves traction like men building ditches before a siege.

"Open your mouth, my girl."

Joyously, she complied. Her mouth dropped open, eyes wide and eager to receive his penis. He brought her head to his tip, then slowly pushed her down. Inch by inch, her throat gobbled up his dick; it was not enough to take it all the way. Piper usually could not, like some other girls and boys he had taken to bed. No, instead she got stuck a little past halfway. The first time it had happened, and her throat could accommodate no more, she had been beyond tears at what she perceived as an inadequacy. It had taken Perseus a quarter of an hour to calm her down.

Now, however, knowing she could take no more, she just hummed on his cock, using her soft hands to work the rest. Even as he pumped her head up and down half his shaft, she still worked her hands. Sometimes they would slither down to cup his balls, once or twice they would push a finger into his anus.

Perseus groaned at her expertise in pleasing his body. Piper, indeed, was a gift from the gods. Yet he did not wish to unload inside her mouth. That was… that was not what he wanted. His cock pulsed, thinking of filling her womb with his sperm.

"Come off, my Piper."

His hands slid her throat off of his thick shaft, a trail of spit hanging onto him as she left him. She stared up at him, a smirk forming as she realized what her king wanted. His hands slid down to cup her face, planting a kiss on her forehead. Then, his hands on her waist, Perseus lifted her up. Her young body was light, even with her heavy breasts; possibly it was his immortal strength that made picking up things easy.

Piper's smile shined brightly as she slipped onto his lap, squirming up around his cock. Her slick cunt pressed against his dick, cradling the sides as she ground her hips against him. His fingers dug into the flesh of her arse. Perseus cradled her bountiful breasts in his mouth. His lips attacked her bosom. He wanted to leave as many marks as possible upon her. He wanted to claim her.

The King's hands pressed up into his bedwarmer's arse as he lifted her from his lap, then up, up his chest. He positioned her right over his cock. Piper's kaleidoscope eyes desperately tried to gain his attention, but he was too focused on suckling her dark nipples. "My… my King! You know it won't –"

Perseus did not care. He wanted to watch her bounce on him. Piper was released to fall onto his fat shaft, screaming out in terror as his head hit her womb with one fell swoop. She had become so used to his cock that there was nothing she could do to stop him from claiming all of her vagina. She made it almost to his balls but could go no further from there. Every part of her pussy screamed in pleasure. It terrified her mind to be like this, suspended on him; her body craved it.

She was lifted up and down on him, over and over. Her ass would jiggle every time his hands let her fall all the way down his cock, every time his hands hoisted her back up. Her large breasts mirrored her rear. His mouth claimed every part of them he could. Perseus buried his head between them, kissed up and down them, suckled on her wonderful nipples. He was insatiable.

Piper's mind lost track of reality as he hit every sensitive portion of her insides and sucked and spanked every sensitive portion of her outsides. Her eyes rolled back, as her mind neared a delirious state. With her mind leaving center stage, her base reflexes quickly snuck in to steal the show. Her dainty hands worked down, one fisting the breast which Perseus was not attached by the mouth to, one sliding over her clit repeatedly.

She worked herself into an uproar, an orgasm. Her cunt clenched around his thick shaft, gripping it in place as she fell down one more time. The King could only grunt as it took his cock double time to reach every bit of her interior. By the time his cock had hit her cervix once more, she had finished her orgasm.

Perseus was determined to give her one more.

He sped up his pace, bucking his hips into her now. To allow him better access, he laid down on the bed. Her body followed his obediently, unable to move much on its own. Each of these new thrusts sent his balls slapping her ass. Over and over he rammed into her.

"My King! I'm close again! So close!"

He bit into her neck, enough to draw a reddening, but no blood.

"Cum on my cock, little Piper. Cum with me."

His voice was low, belying his lustful mood. By the gods he wanted to unload in her again, to make sure she was with his child. His cock pulsed, bottoming out in her. The beautiful Semitic girl threw her head back with one final burst of energy to announce to the whole castle that she had just had a mind-blowing orgasm.

Piper's increasingly tight cunt sent her lover's cock into overdrive. His balls clenched. His cock beat with his heart. Finally, he unloaded his thick, white seed into her. It rushed out of his dick and into her womb, looking for a potential mate.

The King let her collapse onto his chest. Both were covered in a sheen of sweat. Both breathed deep, heavy, and shaky breaths of recovery. Both were deep in a state of post-orgasmic bliss.

Finally, Piper slid off of him, her womb filled with his seed and possibly his child. She mewled softly, her body moving slowly as she redressed. Her smooth breasts jiggled as she moved around; her ass shook as she wiggled the chiton on.

"You are so beautiful, little Piper."

Perseus noticed the blush that adorned her cheeks as he told her this. He could tell the girl was infatuated with him — he was used to it, it was part of the territory of being immortal — but he knew it was nothing more than a simple crush. Countless girls had developed crushes on him. They all, as was mandated by the gods, faded. This one would as well. Whether it would be when he had to leave, or when she had her child, it was unknown. But it was inevitable.

The girl walked, limping, to the door. Her hand pressed against the dark alder door. The hinges creaked ever so slightly; her push was not that strong or deliberate.

"Would you... would you like me to stay, sir?"

Taking Piper may not leave him feeling guilty, but letting her leave always did. There had been times, in those first, initial encounters they had had, where he let her rest her soft young body on top of his eternally young and hard one. But those moments were ephemeral, and never meant to be permanent fixtures.

Still, hearing the hope in her voice left his heart aching for that wanting it had always known. For someone to wake up to, to go to bed with, to enjoy the fruits of his labour with. But that was not to be. The gods, in their infinite cruelty, had not decreed it as such.

He sighed, his stomach churning in want. A want for her to stay, to sit with him as he worked on boring, tedious papers and letters.

"I would, little Piper, but alas I cannot. You are so gorgeous," his tone was lighter than he felt, "that I would be so terribly distracted I could not work!"

She giggled in response, but it was neither genuine nor long with respect to time. He gathered she was hurt, and it pained him to see her upset. Some, his enemies and detractors, would claim he was a cruel barbarian, prone to fucking whichever woman or boy he came across. Yet that was not the case. He cared for many of the girls and boys who entered his chambers, and he was not prone to having multiple bed warmers at once, especially on a march. They were all always so sweet, willing, and eager to please that it pained him to let them down. To let them know their place.

No matter, it had to be done.

Piper pushed the door all the way open and straddled the threshold. "Goodbye, my King."

"Goodbye, sweet Piper."

Perseus turned to his desk the moment she closed the door behind him. From behind the closed doors, he could hear a slight sob. He wrapped a silk towel around his bronzed waist. Piper's sadness haunted the bed.

The stack of papyrus on his desk had never looked so daunting.

 

**THE TRIBUNE OF THE SOLDIERS**

* * *

 

Iason sat in his tent, reading over a letter from his mother. He smiled as she discussed the current gossip of the Senatorial wives. Nothing terrible, nothing that might derail his campaign, just fun, light. It reminded him how much he loved Rome, how much he missed his home. Nothing of great import had happened for the past two years as he sat and waited for a battle to occur. Home would be much better than here, truly. Iason had an eye for wars, but he did not enjoy the political maneuvering of the army, nor the senseless way in which his conscripted soldiers acted.

He had longed for a real battle, with a serious campaign that he had been told of so many times before. He was a young man, two years below twenty, and he needed to prove himself quickly, before all of the good opportunities had passed him by. His mother wanted him to prove himself so that he could come back home and run for office, but Iason did not wish to leave the military, as much as he hated the insidious manner in which his troops and superiors behaved. Iason dreamed of one day running the Roman Army, turning it into the greatest, most efficient military machine the world had ever seen. It would rival, even best, the armies of the King of Asia. No elephants would stop it; no navies would block its path.

Perhaps, though, he should return to Rome. Run for Consul. It would be far easier, that way, to reform the military. Iason had already written one treatise on the army, that he had not yet published. It was written in the years of inaction he had had, where he surveyed the Roman army with immense disgust. Although unpublished, one of his superiors – luckily, the good one – had found it. After reading the large manuscript, he had sent a recommendation to the arriving consuls. Before he knew it, Iason was called over to the consular tent, almost the moment they had arrived.

It had scared him, at first, the summons. Iason was not used to being noticed. Usually, he kept his head down and did what he was told. But Iason had walked out of that tent not a chained man, but a man with a  _cognomen_.

_Iason Iulius Corrector, tribunus militum._

_Corrector_ … Yes, perhaps he could be.

Iason happily picked up his pen, dipping it in the ink he kept on his desk. Too excited to even think about sitting down, he began to pen a reply to his mother.

_annō L. Postumiī Magellī et Q. Mamiliī Vitulī, ante diem IV idus Aprilem._

_Flaviae Iuliō…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what y'all think about it so far - comments on characters, the minuscule amount of plot I've given y'all, etc.
> 
> This is a fic modeled off of big ones from the GoT/aSoIaF fandom like The Lost Emperor by House_Blackfyre and A Song for Dragons by Doublehex. Both are massive, complex, and stunning fics, fics which I feel are lacking in the PJO fandom. I understand that the GoT/aSoIaF fandom is older, oriented to people in their twenties-and-up, not young adults, but c'mon, the original PJO fans are now college kids. We should be producing higher quality shit, feel me?
> 
> Kingpin K's Journey of a King is doing this pretty well, right now, I believe. With both the depth of words, the grey characters, the focus on character and plots over relationships, they're doing a great job. I just decided to make a fic that was more focused on the ancient/classical world rather than the medieval world.
> 
> If you want more, I'm currently 5.5k words into chapter 2, and probably only about a third of the way in or so at that. I hope most of the chapters reach 10k+ words each time, but we'll see. Some chapters are slower than others, with less information to push across. In order to keep up the level of interest, however, like A Song for Dragons, there will be many, many viewpoints. Percy, Annabeth, Grover, the Kanes, Piper, Reyna, Frank, Hazel, Clarisse, Leo, etc. Not entirely sure where each one of them will fit into the major story, but I know that they will.
> 
> Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy it so far!
> 
> Striving to provide Southern Hospitality the world over,
> 
> LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy)
> 
> P.S. - I haven't abandoned Preppy and am currently working on a rewrite of about seven to eight chapters of that fic.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annabeth deals with an ugly man. Percy tours his city. Grover has a conversation. Jason ponders the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might take two weeks, because work is starting up again and I've got AP exams to study for. All chapters from now on will probably be about this long, at least, so don't expect quick updates.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If you have any comments whatsoever, please feel free to leave a review! They motivate me to keep going!

##  **II**

 

###  **ΤΗΕ DAUGHTER OF ATHENS**

 

The seas rocked the boat, forcing all of the occupants on said boat into one another with indifference. Annabeth, when they had first fled, had not accounted for other refugees accompanying them. Most, she assumed, would stay and die by their husbands and sons, chained pets as they were. Instead, even some of the men most desperate for ‘freedom’ had come upon their ship. It was packed to the brim with refugees.

Annabeth’s hands twitched on the dagger she had brought with her. The amount of people on this boat had crammed her into a tight spot. On one side, she was pushed against an older man, who seemed far too interested in her body in this terrifying time; on the other, she was pressed against her family. Matthias hugged her legs, but otherwise looked void of emotion. The boy, she assumed, would become quite the Stoic. The man behind her, in stark contrast, was an Epicurean, no doubt about it. He bumped into her again as the seas shifted, but the man assumed she was a fool, since the seas were shifting the way opposite his body went.

If he so much as thought about putting his hands on her body, Annabeth was sure she would stick her dagger into his large belly. She had taken her time observing the boat. The man was alone, for whatever reason. She had learned this by the fact of his not having talked to anyone since he stepped foot on the boat after she did.

Annabeth traced her finger along the leather hilt. It was her father’s dagger, a _sica_ she had taken from him after he had sold her off, never to be concerned with her again. Once, the young girl had loved her father very much. He would play with her, let her sit on his lap as he read over documents. Yet the moment she had found her brain – she was quite young, given that she was a daughter of the goddess of Wisdom, - he had distanced himself from her.

No longer did he let her sit on his lap, for now she begged to be able to read. No longer did he play with her, for now she begged to learn to fight. No longer was she permitted in his study, for now she begged to advise him.

Her own heritage – the mother who had delivered her to her father, her godly blood – qualified her to be distanced as such. Hellen, not a particularly bright woman, was never kind to Annabeth, but Annabeth could not say she was unkind either. Annabeth was something to be ignored, since if, Hellen believed, she even entertained the notion of wanting to read or fight, then Annabeth would gain credence. Thus, her father’s wife, not even a decade her elder, had let the girl whine and beg for the seven years she had known her.

The world was truly unfair.

The man bumped into her again.

 

His hands had pressed against her hips, perhaps in an attempt to “steady” himself.

Annabeth’s fingers grasped her father’s dagger. Matthias, who by this time had slipped into his mother’s legs, was no longer a burden. Her ankles spun, and she found herself pressed into his smelly stance.

The man smiled down at her. She smiled sweetly up at him. Annabeth might have never felt a stir of lust bubble up inside her once, but she could act. She would have to act. Now, tomorrow, a week from now, even till her deathbed.

 

She advanced a bit, pushing him back. They were approaching the side of the boat, but even he did not know this, too consumed by his desire for her figure and hair. Their feet pressed against boards of a dark brown, so stained by the sea and whatever other shits that had befallen the poor, unassuming deck. Boards creaked beneath his weight.

“Hello little girl. Such pretty blonde hair.”

“Thank you, sir, noble…?” She left the question hanging in the air, begging for his surname. Was he of any importance? If so, it might change what she had to do. What she wanted to do.

“Uglianus, my dear girl.” His teeth were broken, his fat head bald. For the sake of the gods, he was a damned Roman. He was a waking nightmare of hers, the overly intrusive man who would come to take her maidenhood. In those nightmares, she was unarmed, sometimes even bound.

But this was reality, and in reality she was neither bound nor unarmed. Here on the seas, in the darkness, she was bound by nothing but her own intelligence, which she felt was approaching on limitless. Her hand gripped the hilt tightly, then she pressed herself away from him. They were at the edge now, and less people gathered here. Those who did were asleep, leaning against the rails. It was the perfect opportunity.

 

The extra space she had given herself allowed room to unsheathe the blade. Before he had a chance to react, she thrust her dagger, with inhuman speed and power, into the heart of the Italian. His eyes widened in shock, frozen in that dying state.

Annabeth shifted the two of them, her curved blade caught in his heart. No one around seemed to recognize what had happened. Otherwise there would have been shouts, gasps of shock at the truly unladylike actions Annabeth had just taken. He leaned against the railing of the boat, clutching his heart, his huge weight floundering in death.

Annabeth slid out her blade with a delicate hand. His body tumbled over the edge, landing in the water with a loud splash. That final sound he gave drew the attention of the rest of the crew, however. It forced Annabeth to quickly sheath the bloodied blade, and place her hands over her mouth. It was once more time to act.

“H-he fell! Someone help!”

A few women rushed, beckoned by her panicky voice, to the edge of the crappy boat they all stayed on, searching for whomever fell. The rest seemed to bear them no heed, too consumed as they were by their own problems. All they could see was the dark waves, which had already swallowed the body. Light crests, barely visible in the moonlight, hit each other in chaotic dances.

“I-I-I can’t even see him!”

Annabeth slowly moved away from the crowd. No one noticed her absence. The salty air, and the sea spray that he had left on her, was a far better smell in her opinion than his sweaty musk. She unsheathed her blade, studying the blood that was painted along the sharpened edge. Her dainty finger ran over it. The bronze metal blade broke her skin. Red blood, her godly blood, smeared with his mortal blood. Perhaps this mixing ruined her blood, but as long as her wound did not touch his dead blood, it was okay.

The dagger slid against the inside of her brown tunic. She flipped it over to the other side, repeating the process. It was clean enough.

Sheathing the blade, she came to the sudden realization that he was her first kill. She had wondered, running to safety in the docks of Athens, what it would be like if she was forced to kill someone. What she would feel, what she would experience. Would it scar her? Her brothers were too young, Hellen too weak. It would be up to her – a fourteen year-old girl – to defend her family if harm were to come its way. She had stressed, wondering if she would have what it would take.

Apparently she had stressed for naught, as her conscious bore no guilt at disposing of that man. She, to an extent, had enjoyed it. Annabeth did not think it would become a happy pastime, a terrifying vice, like it was for some Spartans; she also did not believe she would be opposed to taking another life that threatened her.

The crowd around the edge of the boat subsided as they realized their combined mass was causing the boat to list starboard. Scared women and interested children moved back into their pre-ordained positions. Annabeth turned to reapproach her family, finding Matthias and Boethus chatting to one another about the King of Asia.

“I hear that his walls are taller than even Babylon! Wider! And there are five of them!” Boethus was an energetic learner, soaking up interesting factoids here and there, but never fully digesting any issue. Shallow but deep, his learning was like a large puddle. Matthias, the future Stoic, focused on learning one thing at a time, and learning it well. His Greek was fantastic, and he had learned all three major dialects quite well for a boy of seven. His learning was like a well. “And that he is immortal! They say he killed Chandragupta with his bare hands, tearing his spine out of his body!”

“Boys,” Hellen interjected, her only strength was that she was a good mother, who knew how to raise proper Athenian boys. And her beauty, Annabeth surmised, but she herself was nonplussed by it. “Let’s not talk about that right now.” She gave Annabeth what the younger girl assumed was a sympathetic look. As if she understood that becoming the King’s wife was a great burden. Yet the older woman got it wrong. Annabeth was not frightened of the burdens, but rather the chains. The burdens were not the chains, just an added weight.

 

“Let’s just get to Sounion first, okay boys?” Her father’s wife finished. “Keep quiet until then.”

“And how long will that be?”

Matthias’s question was not whining, but a smoothly stated inquiry of a proper Stoic statesman. He looked between Annabeth and his mother, an act that garnered him a great deal of respect in Annabeth’s mind. He had always respected her as much as he had mother or father, often turning to her for answers when he knew his parents would have none.

“A few hours. As the sun rises,” Annabeth replied. Her eye turned from her younger half-brother to gaze out to the East. The land of the King of Asia. But not now, as her view was hemmed in by the mountains of Attica. The moon shone brightly from behind her, tugging the sun up behind it, eventually. But at the moment, in the dark night sky, ever star was illuminated.

 

###  **THE KING OF ASIA**

 

The city was unlike any other in the world. When he had widened the river, pressing it outwards with nothing but bare strength of will, it had flooded the grounds to the core. He had let the grounds flood for ten years. For ten years, the river deposited the materials it had acquired downstream upstream, creating fertile farm lands.

Now, farmers used the lands for a _hippikon_ on either side, growing corn, olives, and grapes in abundant varieties and quantities. The farmers made their mark on the land with lush green, gold, and purple mosaics of their crops. It would soon be harvest season for wheat, and the plants showed that that was true. Mules, horses, and oxen all worked together to plow lands already harvested. The dead husks of corn stalks lay upon the ground in those fields.

Between the great but familial farms of wheat, olives, and grapes, sat smaller farms for lentils and lettuce, onion and garlic, chickpeas and beans, and a multitude of herbs and oil-seeds. Marking boundaries between the beautiful farms stood rows of fig, apple, almond, and pear trees. The variety of the plants, the mixing of the lands – all this was gorgeous to him.

Perseus had been raised on a farm, taught how to work lands by a caring woman, an eager cyclops, a Cynic satyr, and a wise centaur. For a hundred years he had observed the lands he worked on, taking detailed notes on the patterns and movements of nature. Unrestrained by human lifespans, he had learned a great deal about the workings of the world. The experience had served him well, as he now stood outside of a city most Cynics would die to live in.

Though some would still criticize the excesses. Perseus enjoyed philosophical debates with the best philosophers of the time, but they did not have the wisdom he had. For two hundred years he had lived, and for two-hundred years he had seen. He knew nature and he knew men. They were not usually harmonious. They had to be forced into a rhythmic tune that continuously pulled and pushed, rubbing against one another, creating friction and heat. It was not a slow dance, but a fevered dance of Dionysian revelers.

The tune of men working rang out from all directions as he neared his goal.

Along the river churned dozens of large wheels made of the sturdiest wood. The flowing river pushed them round and round, a slow, natural cycle. The wheels were attached to large brick buildings, which turned the power of the river into a wheel that would grind down the wheat into a more usable food. Further upstream, where the city tapered off, the wheels were used instead to saw wood.

Downstream, where the mouth of the river once spit out its contents into the _Thalassa_ , stood a mighty port. _Pentaspastos_ sat on both riverbanks there, the men below struggling with strained muscles to winch up crates of the latest cargo to grace the port. Dyes and wood from the West and South, gourds and coffee from south of the Sahara lifted upwards, into the sky, on the North bank; cranes lowered outbound cargo on the South bank, such as wheatseed, silk, Eastern spices.

The river itself had decided it was unsatisfied with the way its mouth was at the beginning of the construction. Thus, over the ten years of relentless flooding, it had pushed out a _diaulos_ Westwards. It was an amazing thing, watching the river eat into the great sea. The powers of the Earth were continually astounding to Perseus, for constantly they strived to awe him. It was why, far after the last human left this world, Earth would continue to survive.

Past the cranes, past the barges and cargo ships, past the cargo, past the docks stood a lofty wall, built of thick, dense stones. Large blocks of sandstone piled up, reaching for the sky; two ends converged at the riverside, reaching for one another. They would never touch. Instead, to block the river when an armada was foolish enough to try to take his city, massive wooden doors, lined with metal reinforcements, were pushed outwards. Then they would sit on large grated gates below that could be winched upwards. No armada, however, would be able to reach the walls, much less be foolish enough to take them.

Perseus had laid the foundations of the walls the moment the flooding had stopped. For five years he and his men had labored around the clock to build the greatest walls the world had ever seen. Sargon, Babylon, Pergamum – none would come close to the walls he had meant to create. Thousands of laborers, all eager to worship their king in whatever way they could, put their hearts, minds, and bodies into the work. Many had died – the official count was around fifty more than two-hundred – but many more had had their whole lives altered due to devastating injury. Nearly a thousand had lost limbs in the process, and the cost to maintain their families’ wellbeing was exhaustive on his coffers.

However, the expense in both coin and people was worth it. Five years after construction on the walls had finally ceased, not a single warship dared threaten Perseaopolis. And the walls were so thick and impenetrable that they drew people seeking shelter, new lives, from all around Mesopotamia. The merchants and traders had come. Here in Perseaopolis, their profits were pre-ordained.

His leather sandals beat against limestone steps. His leg muscles propelled him up each of the twelve steps, to his goal. A few men on the steps bowed, obviously newer converts or the most devout of his followers. Grover called them worshippers.

Most workers, however, used to the nonchalant attitude the King bared, paid him no heed but for a few respectful greetings. They had work to do. Their King, they knew, understood this, and they knew he would rather them work to build his empire than to bow to him. Many of these men had built the walls that now sheltered them, having worked side-by-side with the King.

The men were as not as clean as most men deeper in the heart of the city, down the road from the docks, were. These men at the docks were not those who would grace the bath-houses at the beginning of the day, but at the end of it. Bronzed, strong arms, many with scars or missing a few fingers, contracted and relaxed. Veins popped as the arms they were curled around struggled to lift cargo onto carts.

The pace of the docks always calmed the King. It was as orderly as any docks would be, with segmented jobs. Crane workers would use the pulleys to haul up cargo from the barges – Perseus had decided to tour the inbound side. From there, haulers would shift the cargo boxes into large piles, coded by type of contents. Caravans of wagons would reach the end of the docks, taking the cargo boxes into their backs to cart them into the markets. Each time the wagons returned, they took with them bags of gold and silver, of gems and minerals, that were used to purchase the goods.

The order was undulating, like the waves that always calmed him so much. The heaving, the turning of bodies, the lifting of boxes. It was a good rhythm.

“My King! Come! Come, see what our ledgers say today!”

A heavily accented voice, thick with sands, beckoned him over. Kipkirui, or Kip, as Perseus had taken to calling him, was a lean man, dark with respect to his skin, who towered over the crowd. His height was a true advantage as dockmaster, for it allowed him to survey and direct the workers to the weak points in the line. Kip was a diligent man, from the eastern coast of Africa. Perseus still knew nothing of how he had come into Tyre, only that he had been a faithful follower of Zoroaster until he learned of Perseus. Kip had taken a knife in the back for the King once, an assassination attempt in the docks of Tyre after he had defeated the Ptolemies.

For his good deeds, Perseus had asked Kip what he wanted. The intelligent man had replied “I wish to be a man of letters and numbers.” And so he became one. Now he ran the docks with a ruthless efficiency. Although he was a devout believer in the idea that Perseus was the incarnation of the Creator, the King had no doubt Kip would make him work as hard as the regular dock workers in order to ensure the greatest amount of coin passed through these lands.

Even religion had its limits, it seemed.

“Ah, my good man.”

Perseus put a smile on his face, easily done, and quickened his step. The two friends grasped each other’s forearms, similar smiles boring into the other’s face. The darker man bowed his head in quick reverence.

“My king! The good spring has done wonders on our scrolls! Take a look!”

One of the great innovations of Kip was a board of wood, with two indents. One larger indent was for square pieces of papyrus, bound by pigskin strips, that were easy to flip through. In the other indent, circular, sat a bowl of ink, with a movable cover. An ingenious design that allowed for the African man to take notes without worry of wax melting under hot suns, or having to retain information until he could find a scroll in his office, rarely used as it was.

The other great innovation had been the efficiency of Perseaopolis’ docks. The man was truly a brilliant mind.

Perseus’ eyes, irises more green than blue as he concentrated, studied the numbers on the pages. Black markings showed the King of Asia that the cargo loads were indeed much greater than they had been for the past few years, but one thing stood out.

“You see that, do you not?”

The King nodded his head, studying the quantities of purple dye and Roman grain. They had dipped. The advent of war between Karthage and Rome had dipped the loads already, not considerably, but noticeably. However, the war had mostly been reduced to petty skirmishes in Sicilia, and no one had truly expected more. The Romans were already fighting against rebellious allies in Italy, they did not have the ability to create more war.

Apparently, however, these numbers indicated something else. The decreasing quantities of purple dye meant that the Karthaginians were afraid to send out more cargo ships, fearing piracy; the decrease in Roman grain meant that it was going somewhere else – the rains had been good this year throughout the _Thalassa_ , so there was so assumption of crop failures.

“That will mean more than just lost inventory, my King.” The Africa man flipped through the papyrus, showcasing some other Karthaginian and Roman items that had sunk in stock. “I just came from the outbound side, as well. Purchases are down too.”

The two friends shared a look. Perseus noticed the weary lines that etched into the man’s face. Perseus had many friends, he could not stop himself. They helped him, advised him, and he in return offered them aid and positions of merit. But it hurt to see them age, wither away, and leave him, to see them get impaled in battles that Perseus had led them into.

“I am calling council tomorrow at midday. We will lunch and talk about this.”

Kip nodded in agreement. “We must get on top of this.”

Perseus glanced around the docks at the men working diligently. The early morning sun beat down upon them all, sparing no-one, disregarding class and age and gender. It caused glistening sweat to appear on shaved foreheads and haired ones, on bronzed, dark, and pale skin.

“We will.” Perseus nodded to his dockmaster. The two men grasped arms, their farewell mimicking their greeting. Both forearms were strong, but Kip’s was leaner than the King’s. “I’m going to head down to the markets, see what gossip I can accumulate there.”

“Gossip,” the younger man snorted. “Is like a swift breeze on a hot day. Cools you real quick, but is gone before you can blink. It is not an indicator of anything changing.”

Perseus’ eyebrow raised. Kip, a man who spoke many words, was never out of wisdom. “Yet sometimes it can predict a coming storm when the breezes gather in number and strength.”

“Don’t get too caught up in them,” Kip warned his King. “Else you might become your feared courtiers -- so easily taken by any soft summer breeze.”

The two men stared each other down, then shared a solid laugh. The joke was not even that funny, nor something inside that the two men shared, but the days had been stressful as of late as more and more Hellenic refugees poured into his city. Both men needed a mental crack now and then.

 

“I will try not to! Good day, my friend. Don’t overwork yourself!”

“As my King commands.”

The two parted amicably. Kip turned his back to his King after one finally reverential head bow. Perseus watched his friend work with a slight smile playing on his lips. For all of his vigor, Kip was nevertheless getting older. No, not to the age where Perseus would have to think about a replacement — Perseus did not even wish to think that far ahead. But Kip would soon need an apprentice to work whichever side Kip was not.

Kip’s shouted commands faded away as Perseus made his way down the steps to the markets. The gravel gradually disappeared, replaced by larger, cobbled stone. The main thoroughfare that hugged the walls had four differentiated lanes. Two were for foot traffic, one going each way; two were for wagon traffic, one going each way.

Perseus was not going into the city alone. Walking the riverbank was one thing, for the river itself guarded him. Deeper into the city, he would need a guard. The walls, not by coincidence but by frequency of this route, held one of his elite guard quarters. Perseus made his way there first.

The door to the wall was unassuming, made out of the best materials for defense and not a speck of embellishment. The only thing that signaled the door was of any importance was the presence of two armed guards, their bronze armor gleaming in the early morning sun. The spears that the men would have held in battle were foregone in the city. Instead the men favored the shorter _xiphos_ , or dual wielded _kopis_ , or a Dacian falx. The shorter blades gave the men greater maneuverability in case a fight were to break out. Patrol guards, however, were armed with blunted shafts and large shields, in order to keep the peace in case of the occasional riot.

“My King.” The men in front of him shifted in respectful greeting. Both men looked young, perhaps no older than twenty and no younger than eighteen. They were men, a light stubble forming on their faces giving that fact away. The young beards resting on their faces also belied that their heritage was not Hellenic, but maybe Persian or Thracian. No Hellenic warrior ever let a beard grace their face. They considered it barbaric.

“Men,” Perseus replied. “I’m going to visit the top. Wonderful day for a bit of spectating, wouldn’t you agree?”

The men looked uncomfortable in his presence. They were tense, but not shaking. They were not uncomfortable due to any nefarious ideas – one or two guards had gotten a bad thing in their mind a few times – but rather because they had not interacted with the King before. It explained why Perseus did not remember their face.

“I-I would, sir.” The man to the Immortal’s left spoke with a shivering voice. Perseus waited, watching the two young guards. The still stood in front of the door, petrified by Medusa herself it would seem.

The awkward silence that fell over the three of them refused to leave the party. A fourth member of their little group. Perseus’ foot tapped the ground expectantly.

The sound brought the two men out of their reverie. They figured out that the royal in front of them was not here for idle chit-chat with two young guards, as much as Perseus appreciated their service. The guard to the left of Perseus moved to open the door, while the one to his right stepped out of the way. The wooden door creaked open, already slightly rusted at the hinges.

“Good men,” Perseus commended them as he stepped over the threshold. When both feet had crossed, he turned to the men. “Are you boys citizens?”

“No, your grace.” The speed with which both men talked, their words tripping up like a storming crowd, was a cute bit of reverence which made Perseus’s cock twitch. Usually he did not like bearded men, but these boys were young enough that the beards, barely there, did not bother him as much.

Their words confirmed his suspicions. Neither were Greek.

“Well, you boys keep guarding the door like that, and you may well earn your citizenship sooner rather than later.”

The King sent the two guards a wink, but neither responded the way Perseus wanted them to. No matter, there were many other fish in the sea. Men without young beards dusting their soft faces.

The door shut behind Perseus, and he trudged up the stone stairs that zig-zagged back and forth up the square tower. It was said, throughout the lands that touched the _Thalassa_ , that there were a thousand steps up to the top of his walls. That was a gross exaggeration. The steps, each half a _pous_ in height, would have climbed to the top of Mount Olympus if that were indeed the case.

No, instead there were perhaps two hundred or so. The walls themselves climbed nearly two _plethron_ into the sky. They towered over even Nebuchadnezzar’s walls, though in width they were the same and in number they were less. So far it remained to be seen if they were more or less impenetrable. Hopefully it would always remain as such.

Perseus clambered up step-by-step, a few guards bustling past always moving out of the way out of respect. When he reached the entrance the guards, by now alerted to his elevating presence, opened up the hatch for him on the outside. His callused hands pressed into the dark iron bars that surrounded the hatch-door. His arm muscles did the rest of the work in pushing him up.

The unobstructed sunlight that greeted him rudely blinded his eyesight. Temporary as it was, Perseus’ brain began to consider whether or not this was a security flaw. Before he could even finish his contemplation, however, the blindness subsided and a few nervous guards revealed their shifty movements to him.

“Checkers, so early?”

“We-we weren’t abandoning anything, m-my King!” The youngest of the guards quickly manipulated his mouth, trying to send out the right words. Words that would not land them in probation. The other guards behind him hid their smiles. They were older, some veterans of Perseus’ wars of conquest, perhaps of these very lands; they knew what to expect from their King.

“No? Then why do I find you so defensive?”

The young guard’s lower jaw dropped upon his ears understanding the older King’s question. Perseus could tell by the way his hands shook on his longbow that he was new, therefore unsure of what the King’s sharp tone meant. His friends behind him, not backing him up, knew exactly what the King was doing.

“I…”

The petrified look on the guard’s face was shattered, shock taking to it like chisel to stone. Perseus clapped his hand on the young man’s back.

“Do you not think I know where the rest spot is?” Perseus’ words left his mouth on a deep laugh. He turned to the guard’s chuckling companions, sending them a conspiratory smirk.

“Carry on, men.”

The guards pounded their bows on the ground in response. Perseus’ hand slid off the shocked guard’s back. He had a smooth back, his muscles lean from archery practice, no doubt. The King was reluctant to let his hand leave.

At any rate, he did, moving once again from another potential bedwarmer to the dull life of a king. The men behind him roared in laughter, pulling their comrade down to continue their game. The young man sent accusatory, snappy remarks against his veteran companions.

Perseus turned his body to view his masterpiece. The wide walls could accommodate a chariot, just as Babylon could. There was, however, no need for a chariot, but there were spots for large _polybolos_ and _scorpios_ . _Gastraphetes_ lined the walls, nearby the heavy bolts to load into the crossbows. Always at the ready stood barrels of flammable oil and tar, for dipping arrows into or for dropping in of themselves. Only two hundred men manned the wall on any given day, specialists for manning the anti-siege weapons mostly. But the wall was always ready to be quickly reinforced by a large number of inexperienced archers – hoplites or peltasts untrained in archery – who could use the _gastraphetes_ instead. It was a plan created by his general, Zhang, who unfortunately ruled over Persia for Perseus now. Zhang had not even seen Perseaopolis yet. Perhaps the King would have to command his friend here.

Mechanics, working on the large weapons, ensuring that they were always ready to function at a moment of notice, greased the large gears and repeating mechanisms of the _polybolos_. The sun, rising from the East, cast a bright light that illuminated the dusty limestone walkway. From the West, the ocean breeze ferried in a salty air that would serve a continued disturbance to the walls if they were not so maintained.

Instead, the salty air only carried good memories, not complications. Memories of being on a boat in the _Euxeinos Pontos_ , of fishing for anchovies with the woman who had raised him, of feeling the sea respond to his calls for the first time. These memories always filled him with a sense of being _home_ , a feeling he did not normally feel, even in a city named after him, that he had built with his own hands. That was the true reason he came up here every morning, an hour or so after the sun first rose.

The King of Asia gazed down at the Western shores of his empire. A land had grown out of the overflow of the river, pushing Westward. Perseus wondered how long until it ate even more of the land. Until it consumed the _Thalassa_ whole.

“My King, you called for us.”

Perseus recognized the voice, and he did not have to worry about turning his head. The Persian tongue gracing the Greek words gave away who the man was. There was also the fact that the question was not phrased as such, but as a statement. The man knew his King. There was no doubt in his mind that he was needed.

“Spitamaneh,” Perseus turned to the man serving as his primary guard. Behind him stood Nicias and Philip, the rest of his morning retinue. “You read my mind – per the usual norm, I suppose.”

The gruff man only nodded slightly. Spitamaneh was, as his name suggested, clear-minded. He was not a man of many words, nor did he need to be. He offered advice when advice was needed, and kept quiet when it was not. He wasted no breath, no unnecessary twitch of muscle.

“We are to go to the markets. There is a rumor I need to chase.”

 

“Shall I summon Grover, my King?”

 

Perseus shook his head, eyes seated in his skull, stuck staring out at the calming blue expanse. There was no need for his friend now. He would converse with him later about the gossip of the market.

 

“Let him sleep. The Gods know that he deserves it.”

 

Perseus could feel Spitamaneh nodding at his side. The man was, more likely than not, impatient to get moving. As unwaveringly loyal and obedient as he was, the captain of his guards was a man of action, who enjoyed moving through crowded markets or even helping out farmers far more than he enjoyed staring at the endless sea.

 

He would only have to wait a little bit longer. Perseus closed the lids of his eyes, and took in one final, deep breath of the salty air. The taste gave him energy and power.

 

###  **THE COUNSELOR TO THE KING**

 

Grover was used to being summoned at an early hour. His King liked to spend time strolling through the early morning markets, or the fields, or the training grounds, with him. They spent so many mornings discussing everything from philosophy to construction to the economy. It was a ritual, done nearly every morning. There were times when it grated on his nerves, but by midday he silently thanked the King for the early wake up. Every early morning he still cursed the King.

  
His routine was simple:

 

Wake up, upon hearing the summons of his King.

 

Groan, turning about in the woolen sheets he insisted on using.

 

Finally stand up, then make his way into clothes, usually one of the rattier, older outfits he had made many years ago.

 

Eat a breakfast of fruits and wheat.

 

Go to his King’s side, usually already at the markets.

 

No matter how many times this process was repeated, it still was a terrible, terrible thing to Grover. He was not, as one might expect, one who could wake up at the earliest crack of sunlight and be happy. His King was one of those people, it seemed, but his King had inhuman stamina, so he was not counted among the small list of people who enjoyed to wake up.

 

Therefore, when Grover did not receive a summons in the morning, he was confused. Confused, but not particularly upset. It was a welcome change of pace to wake up at the midday hours when he had expected to be awoken long before. He woke up easily, slowly, letting himself drift back into the dreamworld more than once just to feel that sweet sensation of being able to sleep when one normally would be awake.

 

He had feasted on a mighty breakfast of beans, lentils, wheat, apples, pears, and many other fruits. He had chatted with some of the servants, discussing their daily lives in an easy tete-a-tete not dictated by a busy schedule. One servant’s wife had just successfully given birth - _and_ lived to tell the tale. A beautiful young boy, he was told. Another believed he had saved up enough money to purchase a dowry.

 

That was an interesting story. Grover was intrigued by the idea of saving up money. What would the man have done had he failed to make the money, or if he needed the money he had saved up? Grover decided he would ponder those things more later.

 

But when lunch was finished -- or breakfast, depending on one’s diction -- a herald arrived from the King. Apparently his Nobility had decided that Grover deserved a long sleep for once. The Counselor to the King did not disagree. Now, however, Grover’s presence was needed in the King’s study.

 

And thus his feet fell atop stone floors, thus his legs moved through high stone halls, thus his head stared at the wooden Alder door of the King.

 

The two guards on either side of the door remained motionless as he approached them. The King’s door was knocked upon. Grover waited.

 

“Come in,” his King replied. The dark wood swinged inwards, guided by a bare, tanned hand. Grover stepped across the threshold, into the wide room that the King called his chambers.

 

Stone walls ran up to the high ceiling, meeting at joints of wooden trim, and them squaring out. The room was perhaps a _kalamos_ and a half in width, and two _kalamos_ in length. A door at the right - Grover’s right - could lead into a far more spacious personal library, where Perseus would do more of his pleasure reading instead of work. The study itself was mostly bare of singular scrolls, save for the few that were deemed pertinent and important enough to keep in dueling scroll-shelves on either side of the King’s desk.

 

Old scrolls were sent to the room on Grover’s left, which housed deeper shelves, filled with decades worth of scrolls and stone inscriptions. The air in there was musky, as there was no sunlight or external factors permitted to graze the highly secretive and important room. Sunlight could damage the scrolls, and outside eyes could steal them. Others might think a room like that needed more security than just being in Perseus’ study, yet there was no greater security than the King’s might.

 

“My King,” Grover said, breaking the first word.

 

The sea drafted in from the outside. The King’s desk was situated in front of large windows, the preeminent display of such engineering, that could be closed in the case of a heavy storm by both glass and wooden shutters. Perseus, not normally a man of excess, had demanded such things be a part of both his study and his bedroom, which stood on the other side of his personal library. It was calming, an enabler of learning, he had said.

 

What the King wanted, the King got.

 

“Grover, my friend, take a seat.”

 

The King did not look up from the scroll he was perusing. His tone was not comforting. Instead of the happy, carefree -- as much as any King could be carefree -- tone that Perseus often used when conversing with his closest friend and advisor, his words now were bound tightly together, delivered as stone slabs.

 

“I have a feeling I will not leave this room happy.”

 

“Depends,” Perseus responded as Grover took one of the circular, backless chairs that flanked either side of the desk. “Depends on whether or not you think this news portends an opportunity for good or bad, or if it is not an opportunity for us at all.”

 

“And what,” Perseus’s words had eased some of the tension in Grover, but not much. He had often vehemently disagreed with the King over issues such as invasions and wars, for Grover was a pacifist to a fault and not at all inclined to foreign relations. “Is this news?”

 

“Rome and Karthage’s war is getting hotter.”

 

“And?”

 

Grover was no fool, he understood the consequences that this could have on the merchants and traders in the market district, and subsequently the craftsmen and farmers. There would be repercussions throughout Perseus’s empire due to an actual war between the two growing lands. But Grover also understood the economy was not necessarily Perseus’ main concern. No, the King left the smooth running of the economy and his lands to people more suited to such things - Kip and himself, among others. These reports concerned the King far more because of the implications it would have on his goal.

 

Rome had been steadily expanding, taking control of more and more of Italia. The Republic it had put in place did not scare Grover as much as the other Diadochi did. But the fact that they now seemed to be eying not just Karthaginian-controlled Sicily, but also Syracusan territory was indeed a cause for concern.

 

Karthage, on the other hand, was an impressive overseas empire in of itself already. Since it had focused more on Ispania rather than Libya, it became an important trading partner instead of an adversary.

 

Rome was a far more secluded trader than Karthage. The economic ties were not there for Perseus to consider offering aid to the Romans. He might seek to offer aid to the more economically-inclined Karthaginians.

 

“Kip first showed me the signs of decreased grain and dyes, amongst other exports.” The King leaned back into his chair, grabbing a cup of wine from his desk. The dull metal goblet flew to his mouth, carried by his hand. “The markets told me of other things. A large numbers of rumors from the West. Through the hay, I found my needle.

 

“The Romans brought an army to Sicily. They mean to take the whole island, I presume. Both — or at least one — of the Roman consuls have made their way to Sicily.”

 

“Do you mean to make any move for or against these parties?”

 

The metal goblet tapped on the wooden desk. A dull _thud, thud, thud_ repeated in a boring rhythm. Grover could tell that the King had contemplated this very subject for a while now. Since he had first heard about the issue, probably. But the King would not make a decision on his own. He was a man of ability in many fields, but he was not a master of any but the physical. In the mental arenas of politics and planning, he knew best to leave the creation of ideas up to others. And then, once they had come up with a varied number of plans, Perseus, using his best skill, would pick the one best suited to the task.

 

“No.”

 

The answer shocked him. The King, even if he suspected the majority of his council may agree with him, rarely ever made singular decisions. The few times he had made them, they had had mixed results. Something about the struggle, as unimportant as Grover thought it truly was, had switched something in the King’s brain.

 

“No? Without consulting the council?”

 

“No.”

 

The paucity of words painted a picture of the certainty of the King. He had no desire to get embroiled in a war so far West. As Grover had no desire to get embroiled in any wars whatsoever, he understood the sentiment. There would, however, be voices that would shout vehemently in favor of some sort of interjection or warning.

 

“The merchants will dislike that idea, Perseus.” The name changed as the conversation got more serious. It was an odd dichotomy. In less serious yet more formal settings, even in private, Grover would use “my King” to address the man he had known from the immortal’s appearance. Yet in a more serious yet less formal setting, Perseus was to be used, a slip from the lofty attitudes of royal life back down into those days when all they cared about was the land and the sea. Simpler times, one might say.

 

“They will.”

 

The King had turned back to another scroll, obviously bored with the subject already. A council meeting would have to be called, but it seemed that whatever information the King had discovered in the market was not serious enough to merit a response from Perseus’ empire. And yet…

 

“Your grave tone suggests that this is not an easy decision for you, yet the paucity of words suggests otherwise. Bring the matter before the council, and let them mull it over in their brains.”

 

The King’s fingers drummed against the handle of his now empty goblet. Once consumed, the King, Grover knew, would have not more than one glass a day.

 

“The matter is trivially unimportant, and thus my word is enough. I thought I would have to call a council, but I do not believe so anymore.”

 

The gravity with which the King had been approaching this situation made Grover think his old friend believed truly otherwise. Time to play the counselor who gave hard advice. Most counselors would be killed for it, but Grover was trusted for it. “Might I suggest a warning? Tell the two to back down, make peace, otherwise you may have to get involved?”

 

Perseus smirked, his lips twitching upwards at one end, letting a low, soft chuckle escape. “A warning? Am I a father to two squabbling children?”

 

Perseus would play the part of father well, Grover assumed. The King, though he often seemed to fuck girls with the express intent of getting them fat with his child, had never had any children of his own. The gods, in exchange for his immortality, had taken away his ability to reproduce. Not that the King himself ever knew that, of course. Perhaps the King assumed something was amiss by the cause of the gods, but Grover doubted Perseus expected such nefarious intervention.

 

“You might have to be, if both of these upstart children get greater ambitions than Syracuse or Ispania.”

 

Grover ran a hairy hand through his head of thick curls. They brushed through his horns, curved like a hyperbola, and ended up out the back of the tunnel of hair. The King, sitting against, mirrored his actions.

 

“You have convinced me.”

 

“Of what, my King?”

 

“I shall hold the council meeting.”

 

Internally, Grover smiled in reaction. The idea of a warning was not so much for the sake of the warning itself, but rather a reminder that there were better ways of solving a crisis than by an impulsive response. The council, for starters. And, Grover realized, he would have to figure out what exactly had so disturbed the King about the reports.

 

###  **THE TRIBUNE OF THE SOLDIERS**

 

The letter sat finished on Iason’s desk, perched on top of other scrolls that needed to be read as the siege of Agrigentum continued outside the desk. Quite boring, sieges were. A waiting game of considerable folly, comprised of nothing but boredom. It was said that Alexander let his men slaughter thirty thousands of the Tyrians after the city had resisted for six months.

 

At this point, only a few months into a far lesser siege, Iason did not yet blame Alexander for his actions.

 

The war had been stale, and the consuls had promised with their arrival to add a new fire. They had sailed their fleet to the south of Sicilia, with four legions, and had quickly driven the Karthaginians and their Sicilian allies back into the walled town of Agrigentum. Fifty thousands were said to stay inside those walls now. With no way out, they were trapped; with no way in, the Romans were stuck in an endless siege.

 

The approach to Agrigentum from the East was blocked by the Hypsas river, so the Romans had set up camp from the banks of the river in the North to the sea in the East. The work to seize the grain from surrounding farms had been the most action the young Roman had seen in his life. Yet he was suddenly a _tribunus militum_. The Gods were a funny, humorous sort.

 

Iason rolled off his cot with an undignified thump. The odd movement was something he had learned was bound to wake him, every morning, without fail. From his spot on the grass floor, he would press up twenty times, just to get his energy levels up.

 

Up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and…

 

Iason sighed on the nineteenth exercise, sitting with his body as flat as a board, on the soft grass, slowly dying. Up. With the final thrust, he catapulted his body into a standing position to get himself dressed for the day.

 

A mailed tunic, a _plumata_ worn by his grandfather against the Samnites, went over a softer, woolen one. Leather _manica_ , to protect his forearms. Metal greaves over his shins. The _balteus_ over his waist, which he stuck a _gladius_ into. _Caligae_ onto his feet. His domed helmet he left on his cot, next to his new, purple _paludamentum_.

 

With reverence, he lifted it up. The fabric was silk, given to him by the consul Lucius himself. Iason’s hands had trembled in delight and honor as the item was placed into his hands. Now, he could wear it to his first council meeting as _tribunus militum_.

 

Once the _paludamentum_ was attached, Iason could not help but feel as though the fabric belonged there.

 

A lone tear fell from his eye. His mother would be so proud.

  
Iason missed her.

 

His hands next reached for his helmet, the bronze half-sphere was dull inside the tent, as devoid of light as it was. Outside, however, it would shine as bright as Apollo. Iason placed the cool metal on his head. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, breathing in the newfound confidence.

 

“ATTACK! ATTACK!”

 

A shouting man’s screams echoed up and down the camp at first sunlight. The hoarse hollers broke Iason out of his reverie. His mind went into overdrive. Hannibal Gisco did not have the men to attack their camp of nigh forty thousands. He barely had the men to defend Agrigentum!

 

But these were not the screams of madman; his fear was audible through the scratchy throat. Thus Iason gripped his _hastae_ roughly. Though he now had no need to form up with the maniples, he would carry his spear as a bearer of courage, like the aquilifers would bear the sigils.

 

He burst out of his tent and into early morning suns. Both light and heat beat into him with a passionate determination of any siege. The rows of tents arranged as far as the eye could see painted an impressive picture. Yet between the rows, a panic had overtaken the camp. Soldiers ran back and forth, looking for the enemy they could not yet see. A few officers, of no particular ability or differentiation, mixed in with the _turbum_.

 

“Halt!” Iason’s voice was not as low as one would hope for an eighteen-year-old _tribunus militum_ , but it did some trick. A few soldiers nearby, those who had heard, stood in place. Their feet grounded into the earth. “What’s the situation, soldier?”

 

“Not good, sir!” The soldier must have been at least a year or two Iason’s elder, but he did not seem displeased with answering to one younger than him. Good. “Gisco has attacked the soldiers in the field, like a damned barbarian!”

 

It was smart, not barbaric, Iason thought, but his words were given no voice. The soldiers in the field were unarmed, of a decent number. Easy pickings, and the numbers fleeing back into camp could cause a welcome distraction for the Karthaginian general. The camp had only pickets as defense, the commanders not heeding Iason’s pleas for more entrenchment. Now they would pay the price for their negligence.

 

“Gather more men, meet me at the commanders’ tent. Disperse!” The imperative in Iason’s command did not go unheeded, as the obedient men fled to gather more companions. Iason would need perhaps two hundreds of men to complete the action he had planned.

 

The _tribunus militum_ considered the fact that, at best, Gisco had five thousands of men under his command, if that. Therefore, the attack would be less than that, since men would have to stay to man the walls. The troops out in the field were probably his best and most mobile men, who could cause chaos and panic as the Romans made camp.

 

A fire here, a fire there -- before they could react, the Romans would see their whole camp burn before their eyes.

 

But the troops in the field, as shocked and as unarmored as they were, outnumbered their Karthaginian opponents. They would not be able to fight back, but could instead flee, warning their armed brothers of the dangers. It was their quick minds and quick feet that now gave Iason the opportunity to fight back.

 

“You all,” Iason yelled out at the men who were hastily running out of their tents, armor half finished, eyes still thick with sleep. “Back, get on proper uniform!”

 

Noticing his _paludamentum_ , perhaps, they quickened back, harkening on his command. They were afraid, no doubt, and confused; the confusion would rapidly lead into more panic. But in order to hold of the force attacking, though small in number, his men would need to be orderly. Order was the enemy of chaos, the only defense against it.

 

The consuls in their shining armor guided the men with an inspiring sense of calm as Iason jogged to meet them. Through prongs of soldiers hustling through the camp, preparing to engage with the hated enemy, through laborers hurrying to put out fires caused by the stampede of troops, Iason made his way to his superiors.

 

“Consuls,” he greeted them with words and a bow. “By your leave I will take some _velites_ , about two hundreds in number, and meet up with the enemy on a melee battle.”

 

The two regal looking men, both elderly and distinguished in their bright purple _paludamentum_ and shining armor, stared at him with a sense of indifference. “Why the haste, young tribune?”

 

Quintus was the one who asked, older than Lucius, having seen service against Pyrrhus, ironically fighting with the Karthaginians. He was nevertheless less wise than his younger counterpart, a bit brash with an eye on his future, fading, career. Another eye was, admittedly, focused on the present, but that view was not given as much attention.

 

“This is my first battle, sir. I aim to do well.”

 

Iason spoke his words with a confidence awarded to men of true character. He meant every syllable, so it was not difficult to come up with the confidence. As much as Quintus’s ambition and future-oriented thinking grinded on his nerves, Iason had, on occasion, glanced towards his future as well. He knew that his future depended upon being a strong, capable commander with experience of not just participating in, but also of winning battles.

 

Lucius, the man who had appointed Iason to the role of tribune, odd for one so young, watched Iason with the level of interest a metaphysist might have for an odd bird. He studied first the determination upon Iason’s face, then the consul inspected the _paludamentum_. The older man nodded.

 

“You have leave,” Lucius said. “Go, fight now. Fight well.”

 

Iason gave two small nods of respect in the direction of each man, before hurrying off to the commander’s tent. Along the way he scouted out other _velites_ to join him in his mission. Thus he arrived at the large tent with around twenty or so clients.

 

Once there, Iason noted that the man two years his elder had truly heeded his orders. With him he had brought around a hundred lightly-armored _velites_ , armed with light _hastae_ , short bows, or _gladii_. As Iason’s group joined with the legionnaires, Iason joined with the older man.

 

“What’s your name, soldier?”

 

Iason studied the face of lightly tanned skin, shaved beard, and green eyes. It showed no fear or submission at talking with the tribune, but it did show respect and determination. Iason liked that, for he had no need of mindless underlings, but no need either for disrespectful elders. He knew what he was going to do, even if he had yet to do it. It was, not due to nepotism or favoritism, why he had been raised to his tribunal position.

 

“Dacotus, tribune.”

 

Iason nodded at the older man. “I need a second. Are you that man?”

 

Dacotus only nodded affirmatively. Iason smirked. “We will win this battle, my new friend.”

 

“It is determined,” Dacotus replied cryptically.

 

Iason turned back to his assembled group of men, less than what he had hoped but enough to do some damage. Their armor was varied in the amount, with some men carrying more and others carrying far less. The happy medium was a leather muscle armor, but some of the skirmishers wore barbaric furs and others wore nothing but a loincloth.

 

“Men, the battle will be won, of this I am sure.” Iason paused, looking into the eyes of his ragtag crew. He needed to make this quick. “Our goal is not victory but a speedy one. The enemy,” Iason began to walk backwards, and the men followed, facing him. “Will try to break through the lines as a distraction, while their sneakier comrades push in to cause havoc. Our brave consuls will take care of the distraction, we shall cut down those who would wish to cause flame.”

 

With those words spoken, Iason turned, breaking into a slight jog. His nerves, once calm, now shook with dangerous ambition. His first battle was closing in, his first life he would have to soon take. The thought made him sick.

 

He was _tribunus militum_ . _militum._ Of the soldiers. For the soldiers, Iason thought would be a better term. His very presence was courage for his soldiers. His own courage was for them. He would not fail them. He would not fail Rome.

 

Iason pushed through the throng of scrambling men. His men behind him made themselves into a ‘V’ to be like an arrowhead pushing through the hide of a deer. They all ripped through the skin and fur as one, getting to the pickets sticking outwards like broken ribs.

 

“Through, through men!”

 

Iason and his soldiers jumped over the hump and through the spikes of pointed wood. Their mobility would serve them well. Outside the camp stood a thicket of shrubs and smaller trees on a field of burnt grass. A bit past the countryside were the farms and, beyond them, the city of Agrigentum pushed out of the ground, trying to leave the Earth behind.

 

“Dacotus,” Iason called. His newfound second trotted into an even jog behind the tribune. Iason scouted through the early morning sun. To the southwest the main fighting was taking place. “Take a group of sixty men. Run down to the battle, then patrol back and forth. I will mirror you up to the ends of the camp.”

 

The obedient legionnaire nodded. Both men turned on their _caligae._ Iason divided the men with an invisible wall extended from his hands, hoping that they would part in equal number and talent. Sixty or so joined with Dacotus, and sixty or so joined with him.

 

So far, Iason was stunned by the competency of the soldiers. For the whole length of three years, he had observed them with snide indifference, berating their disorderly conduct and barbaric practices. Those observations had given him his current command, a command over those he had severely berated.

 

Now, in stark contrast to his earlier findings, he was observing men who not only knew what they were doing, but could do it well. They fell into silent step behind him as his men snuck around the shrubs that dotted the land. In the distance, the echoing battle cries of courageous and wounded men mixed into large, lengthy, and chaotic scream. The terrifying sound of battle.

 

Iason and his men, their hearts beating as one, a quick drum, swept along the edge of camp. Their eyes darted three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around, their feet following the same motion as they searched for their prey. They were a hungry pride of lions, full of pride in their shared Roman heritage.

 

Their obedient, focused nature confused Iason. These were not the men he had criticized, as they seemed to have metamorphosed into true Roman soldiers with the latest night. Iason, however, could not think on this now. He had better things to occupy his mind with.

 

Dark shapes bounced through the shrubbery ahead of Iason. The tribune held up a leather-bound hand, causing the men behind him to halt. They took cover behind the bushes, their heads peeking out a little to see what their tribune had seen. The Karthaginians in their sight were no more than an _actus_ away at this point. They moved at an angle towards the camp, closing the distance between the two groups while Iason’s men did not. Iason’s heart pounded against his ribs, begging for freedom.

 

His hand went to his _hastae_ , figuring that he and his men might be able to form up into groups of three or five in order to take the fight to the enemy. Yet Iason had forgotten a crucial component of his armor in his haste to organize the chaos -- his shield.

 

“ _Blennus_ !!” He cursed underneath his breath. He would have to fight with his _gladius_ instead, a weapon he was far less comfortable with. As a boy training in Rome, he did not like the short reach of the blade, and now he would also be without a shield. But a spear was not good for blocking, and without the shield he would need to block. The gladius was not much better, but the operative word there was that it was _better_.

 

Letting out a harsh breath, Iason unsheathed his _gladius_. He heard, but did not turn to see, his men follow his lead in getting their weapons ready. His heart beat against his chest.

 

Rush in blindly, hoping his men would follow?

 

No, Iason needed a plan. Something quick, easy to come up with. The three or five approach seemed to work. Swordsmen could come with him, and archers could pick their targets.

 

With his plan in his mind, Iason quickly moved around the bushes, as silently and blind to the enemy as possible. The words he gave to his men about his plan were quick, to the point. The men, whom only hours before he had consistently castigated for their lack of listening skills, nodded their collective heads in understanding. They followed Iason’s orders almost exactly to a T.

 

Iason took his former position back. He looked at the Karthaginians, pulling closer to the pickets. A deep breath. In, out. This was it.

 

“ _GLORIA ROMAE_ !!” Iason poured his words out at maximum volume. The _velites_ behind him joined in his battle cry, all sixty men pouring their voices together.

 

The Karthaginians, suddenly startled, turn to watch the onslaught of advancing Roman skirmishers. Iason’s men were behind him, he knew instinctively without having to look back. There was also the fact that his men’s footsteps could be heard rumbling the ground behind him.

 

They closed the distance, switching roles with the enemy, as the Karthaginians now stood, paralyzed by appearance of the Romans. Overhead, pinned against a bright blue sky, arrows flew from Roman bows. They swirled around in the sky, falling with increased speed. Soft thuds and the sudden litter of Karthaginian bodies on the ground meant that the arrows found their targets.

 

Iason’s heart thrummed against his ears at this point. It was time.

 

Iason’s sword raised high into the sky as he finally met his opponent. The Karthaginian soldier he fell upon barely had time to feebly reach for his sword before the _gladius_ fell through the light leather armor. Straight through the heart.

 

The man stared at Iason, eyes wide. He looked so afraid, so uncertain of his future, that it made Iason question what he himself looked like. What would it have taken for Iason to be the man he had just killed?

 

Iason slid out the _gladius_ , now slick with thick blood. The Karthaginian collapsed on the small battlefield. This body landed with an undignified thud. Iason’s heart thudded against his chest. That was his first life. It made him feel surreal.

 

Unfortunately for Iason, his thoughts led him to distraction. He had become so distracted, so taken with the idea of taking a life, that he missed the Karthaginian running at him, spear down and shield at the side, ready to avenge his fallen comrade.

 

Nearly missed. With a speed Iason did not know he possessed, Iason hurled himself out of the way at the last possible second. The reaction saved his heart from being pierced, but the Karthaginian spear still cut at his unprotected bicep.

 

The pain was unimaginable, a hot, searing cut straight through the arm that should have held a protective shield. It burnt hot for a few seconds, but his body responded to the attack. The pain faded into the background as Iason took to his feet once more. He positioned them in a basic fighting stance as the Karthaginian circled the wounded tribune. Realizing that, due to the shorter weapon he possessed, Iason would have to get in closer, his feet ran at the spearman.

 

Yet there was no need. An arrow found itself lodged in the Karthaginian’s unprotected neck, entering one end and the tip going through the other side. Like his fallen comrade, the Karthaginian’s body thumped against the ground rather ungracefully.

 

There was nothing graceful about combat, Iason was quickly learning.

 

Iason’s breath was hot and heavy, labored; his eyes scanned the battlefield for his savior, but could find no one. Well, no one fitting the description of his savior. His men struggled with their Karthaginian counterparts, some fighting more desperately than others. From seeing his men currently engaged with the enemy, Iason guessed there must have been around equal numbers of their men as his. Each man just needed to kill one of the enemy.

 

Iason had already killed his man, but he would be damned by the gods themselves if he did not kill more. His eyes spotted a lone Roman spearman, his comrades having been scattered like leaves in the wind, engaged with two prowling Karthaginians. Iason ran, his _caligae_ jumping over bodies strewn on the ground like those same leaves caught by the wind. On his way to the man, now desperately fending off the two attackers, Iason stooped down to pick up a rounded shield carried by one of the Karthaginians.

 

With his newfound protection, Iason bellowed a mighty scream at the two bullying Karthaginians. However, unlike the last time Iason used his war cry, these Karthaginians seemed more aware. They did not flinch, turn petrified, or flee. One just calmly turned, spear in hand, lofting it above his head. The war cry had broken his surprise, rather than added to it. Too late, Iason picked up his shield to defend.

 

The heavy weapon lodged itself through Iason’s shield, the point cutting across Iason’s lip. Any more force, and the tip would have landed on the ground, taking Iason’s head with it. Instead it just caused blood to pool in his mouth from his cut. As Iason’s head cleared of fear, it filled up once more with pain. The shock from the spear-thrower had left his left arm numb. Iason could not move it, and it fell down of its own volition.

 

His eyes, dizzied, blinked in confusion.

 

He was on the ground, on his knees, his whole body weak.

 

The Karthaginian had decided that Iason was done for, and had killed the _veles_ Iason had wished to save. He and his companion now walked away, searching for new prey. The blood in Iason’s mouth grew thicker as his eyes found his dead man. He had failed.

 

The burdened of leadership pushed him into the ground, trying to hold him down. Iason’s whole body was weak. But the battle was not done. His men were still fighting. Iason was still fighting.

 

With tremendous effort, his legs pushed upwards, against the pain and the burdens placed upon them. His left arm, cut by the spear but quiet since then, started to ache again. The searing pain worked its way back, taking over his shield arm. His nose picked up the unmistakable stench of shit, coupled with the metallic taste of blood. It was a sickening combination.

 

“ _GLORIA ROMAE_!!”

 

A lone soldier’s shout echoed around the battlefield. His comrades soon echoed, their voices chasing the man’s own. Iason weakly choked out his own addition to their culminating sound. His eyes squeezed tightly together, working through all the crazy emotions and feelings that were coursing through his body right now.

 

When they opened, his ears heard nothing but the soft breeze. Slowly, moans joined in, pitiful cries for help. Around him, his eyes took in dead bodies. Many _velites_ sat, lifeless, on the ground, their bodies gone to the gods. But many more Karthaginian skirmishers roamed around as well. There was no discrimination amongst the dead.

 

The lack of sound meant that the battle was over. They had won.

 

The men who were left roamed the minuscule battlefield, putting out the life flame of those whose flame was already only flickering. The sound of plunging swords or thumping arrows slowly put down the sounds of pitiful moaning.

 

Iason spat out the blood that was sitting in his mouth, coughing the rest of it out afterwards. His right arm wiped off the excess blood forming on his lip. His left arm dropped the small shield that had completely failed at defense. His bicep started burning even further, and he took his first real look at his injury. The cut was deep, perhaps a _digitus_ or so into his muscle. If Iason so wished, he could probably put his finger inside his arm and --

 

The thought alone made him nauseous. He closed his eyes once more and took a breath. The air still smelled like shit and blood. His eyes opened, and a young soldier, perhaps a year below him in age, stood at attention in front of the tribune.

 

“Situation report?”

 

Iason’s voice was hoarse, tired. He felt physically and emotionally drained. It was not at all how he had imagined his first battle to be. He had not realized the chaos of it all, the desperation of it all, the lack of glory it all con--

 

“We have put down the enemy, sir, and sustained no more than a dozen injuries of our own.”

 

The younger soldier seemed more ready for battle, more prepared for the aftermath, than Iason did. It made him feel pathetic. How was this boy, younger even than he, able to survive what Iason himself could not?

 

Yes, Iason may have survived physically, but was he the same in his mind? He felt forever changed, the Iason that woke up this morning was not the same Iason breathing so heavily now. Iason’s mind drifted off to the letter he had written his mother. What was the point in sending it now?

 

“Good, good,” Iason replied, half conscious. “Do we see any other groups moving towards the camp?”

 

Focus, the young tribune told himself, on the task at hand. Do not think ahead, not now.

 

“No, sir,” the young soldier replied, his attention and discipline further breaking down Iason’s previous report. The report that had led him to this. Iason felt guilty, having led men he had previously despised for perceived failings into their death. They had proved him wrong, and he had rewarded them by taking their lives.

 

“Very…” Iason coughed, his lip spilling blood into his mouth. “Very good. Let us make sure now, understood?”

 

Iason doubted that he had the strength to carry on, but this was a mission he had assigned to himself. He could not fail now. There were other _tribuni militum_ out there, all vying for an opening that he too wanted. Succeed here, succeed there. Focus on the now, achieve the later.

 

Iason liked that motto.

 

The soldier nodded in confirmation of his understanding. The younger man turned on his heels, relaying the orders given to him, barking them out to his comrades. Iason walked over to the soldier who had died by his failings. His legs were regaining strength.

 

Iason’s fingers grasped the spear, after leaning down to pick it up, that the man was carrying with him, the tip not at all coated in blood. The man had failed in his mission of killing one man, making him and Iason even. Iason let the spear fall from his fingers as his back straightened out once more.

 

His men began to move once more, walking more confidently down the line of pickets. Iason closed his eyes, took another deep breath, and moved to join them.

 

The day was not yet truly over.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy practices swordplay and meets an old friend. Jason goes to a meeting. Carter dines with his woman. Annabeth meets new faces.

**III**

 

**THE KING OF ASIA**

* * *

 

_CLANG!!_

 

In the middle of the hot, mid-morning air, swords beat against shields, spears against armor. Feet danced around over the hot sand. Arms moved through the air, slicing the non-existent out of existence.

 

The sun was always brutal midday in Perseaopolis. The encroachment of summer into the spring made it even more ruthless. It was a repressive force that drove people back inside, disrupting commerce, for it was too hot to be anywhere but in the shade. In that way, as shops shut down for a few hours, they had been losing business. So Perseus had created a few wells along the way, selling water one _obol_ for two cups. It was a lucrative business, funding two schools of merchants, while also encouraging more trade.

 

Perseus dropped on his right side, leaning into a roll. The axe swung down, slamming into the ground where Perseus stood only seconds before. As he stood once more, Perseus swung the pole in his hand. It thrust backwards, catching one of his guards in the chest. The immense power of the blow caused the guard to fly backwards, landing on the ground in a loose thump.

 

The King’s hands worked overtime, swinging the shaft -- meant to resemble a pointless spear -- upwards to catch the axe that came down once more. The shaft did its job, stopping the brutal onslaught. His arms pushing upwards in response, Perseus stopped the blow cold, even staggering his much larger opponent backwards. However, the blow had cracked his shaft. While his axe-bearing opponent was staggering backwards, Perseus dropped the staff.

 

Now without any offensive weapons, Perseus switched to unarmed combat. He rushed the axe-wielder, jamming a fist into his stomach. Fists repeatedly landed on the man’s chest, until he fell down from the speed of the attacks. The King followed, landing on the man’s chest, straddling him.

 

“Dead.”

 

The guard gave a weak chuckle. Perseus stood from his chest, helping the man up. He gave a head-bow to his King, then rumbled off out of the arena. Looking at the floor, Perseus found that the man had failed to leave any extra weapon for the King. Anakreon, the axe-bearer, gave a slight wave as he exited the pit.

 

Fucking bastard, the King thought, though he could not hide his smirk. He had taught them well in the art of being a cheeky son of a bitch, it seemed. Perseus turned to the sound of advancing footsteps.

 

The three of Perseus’ remaining guards approached him, trying to encircle their King. Spitamaneh advanced from Perseus’ front, slowly gaining speed. Both of his _sagaris_ axes were held low as he sprinted. Perseus planted his back foot in place, grinding it into the sandy arena grounds.

 

He could sense the two men gaining ground from behind him. He could hear their footsteps, feel their breathing, smell their sweat. Every sense worked in overdrive. They knew what he would do. He would duck under Spitamaneh, flip him over into the man’s two comrades. It would be a disorienting move. They counteracted the move, sliding into his sides instead of coming at him from behind at any angle.

 

Smart, but Perseus could feel their movements. He knew that the moment that he would stand again, they would cut him down -- perhaps even before that. Perseus sucked in a breath.

 

Then he charged, catching Spitamaneh off guard. Perseus was normally patient, his stamina so high that he could absorb blow after blow after blow without becoming tired. His normal strategy was to take those blows until his enemies could no longer stand. It was what they expected.

 

But the sea was unpredictable, and thus so was he.

 

He caught Spitamaneh’s waist with his head, driving underneath him. The speed with which Perseus hit his guard translated into pure shock. Spitamaneh flipped upwards, landing in the very spot where Perseus was supposed to get clobbered.

 

Perseus, meanwhile, had broken into another roll, this time a front roll. He stopped himself on a dime, coming up in a kneeling position. He surveyed the arena. The two guards helped Spitamaneh to his feet, the captain repositioning himself. All three guards stared at him. A falx, two _sagaris_ axes, and a _doru_. Perseus was still unarmed.

 

His eye caught two _kopis_ daggers laying around. Making a mad scramble for them, as they were about an _orgyia_ away, Perseus lunged into the dirt. His hands fumbled to make the hilt, but once they had done so, his grip was steady. He jumped off of his back, into a fighting stance.

 

His guards had taken a moment to catch their breath. They knew that they would need it, for Perseus had devolved back into his familiar strategy. Hold out. Their King was a fortress. The three men went into an upside down ‘υ’ formation. Spitamaneh, at the vertex, held back as the other two men closed in on the wings of battle. Like any good tax collector, their plan was to have Puzur-Ishtar and Thyrsis hold down the King, letting Spitamaneh take as many hits at him as he pleased.

 

Perseus did not plan on letting it be so simple for them. His feet shifted to the left, shuffling along but not at the loss of a solid footing. He planned to go for Puzur-Ishtar first, looking to get at least one other member of the game out. Four were already out.

 

Puzur, not one of the stronger but of the swifter, shifted with natural ability. The Babylonian kept his chest aimed at the King’s chest, ready to take any advance. His two companions quickly moved to follow, putting Puzur-Ishtar at the vertex this time. The man’s _doru_ had a long enough range that it was probably best he be there in the first place.

 

A sigh escaped the King’s mouth. Not fast enough. He was hoping to break the formation, but his men were good -- which normally was a good thing, though not when they were fighting their King. He did not feel like being patient today. The sea had invigorated him more than normally today. From the West an vivifying breeze had wafted in this morning. It, perhaps, heralded the arrival of good news from the other side of his borders for once.

 

His men, apparently, were not quite happy with the waiting game. Spitamaneh and Thyrsis rushed at him, _sagaris_ axes and falx raised high. Planting his left foot, Perseus got to work. His right foot swung out, tripping Thyrsis running at him. The Corinthian soldier, son of one of Philip’s generals, stumbled, trying to regain his footing with speed. Perseus decided not to let him. He thrust into Thyrsis’s waist with one of the blunted long knives. Moving quickly, so as to block with his longer blade, Thyrsis lost all balance.

 

When the younger soldier fell backwards, Perseus fell upon him. Into the ground, Perseus jabbed the left blade.

 

“Dead.”

 

Perseus was not gloating. The word was a fact.

 

“Yes, yes, of course.” The Hellenic warrior grumbled, annoyed at still being unable to defeat his King. The ends of Perseus’ lips barely tipped upwards. His guards, being so close to him so often, were subsequently some of his favorite people. They were not afraid to speak their mind to him, to tease him, or to be disrespectful around him. They challenged him. Perseus liked a challenge.

 

The Corinthian got up with an angry complexion. These training sessions were doing good for Thyrsis. Perseus, on his knees, swung his arms and knives, extensions of his arms as they were, perpendicular to his torso.

 

“Do you all want to attack at once, or do you plan on letting me walk over you all?”

 

The two remaining men growled, splitting apart, their previous plan in tatters. As they circled him, the King spun himself around, keeping one foot planted at all times. Feet tried to outpace each other, his men determined to get out of the one-hundred-and-eighty degree angle they found themselves in. They swung around in a circle, the King the center and his two arms the radii. If they could get behind or in front of the King, they would have a better chance.

 

Suddenly, Spitamaneh stopped moving. The man was anxious to fight. His body turned sideways, his left arm trailing behind the other. Spitamaneh did not yell in battle. Perseus was forced to stop. He brought his right _kopis_ up to defend, acutely aware of Puzur-Ishtar behind him, rushing to strike.

 

Perseus caught Spitamaneh’s blow with a strong right arm. Puzur-Ishtar thrust his spear towards the King’s unprotected back. Perseus twisted his body back, bringing his left arm down to parry the spear.

 

Spitamaneh thrusted again, going lower with his second axe. Perseus was forced to quickly, his speed unnatural, swing his left knife back to counter. The two blades met with a resounding crash.

 

Spitamaneh now had both of Perseus’ arms, but Perseus’ attention was still unhindered. He could feel Puzur-Ishtar flip his spear into a beating cane, bringing the long shaft down on the small of Perseus’ back. The pain was stinging, but not unusual. His only response was a grunt. He stared into Spitamaneh’s brown eyes, both men grimacing in determination.

 

The royal foot swung, slicing in between his guard’s two firm legs. Their ankles collided. The force of Perseus’ blow won out against the solidity of his guard’s stance. The captain had to hobble backwards, unbalanced, and replant his feet. Perseus whapped the flat of his blade against the firm thigh, probably causing the formation of a bruise.

 

With his opening secured, Perseus spun around, his swords now unentangled. His dual blades caught the thrust of Puzur-Ishtar’s spear, forming an ‘Χ’ with the shaft in the middle. Unable to pull the spear out, Puzur-Ishtar could only watch, in usual defeat, as Perseus yanked his arms upwards and the spear out of Puzur-Ishtar’s hands. Now unarmed, Puzur-Ishtar tried to get in close.

 

It was a useless gesture. Swiftly sidestepping the assault, Perseus grabbed Puzur-Ishtar’s arm and pulled him into a headlock.

 

“Dead.”

 

The penultimate contender left the arena, his sigh resigned. The men were accustomed to losing to him. It was not that they did not have skill -- that they had lasted the whole hour, even seven on one, against him was a testament to their ability. But they were mortal, and the King was not. It was not a boast, just a fact.

 

Spitamaneh remained, alone now. The Persian had disregarded one of the _sagaris_ axes, picking up a Boeotian shield. Spitamaneh’s remaining axe beat against the shield, the quiet man’s cry of ‘come and get me.’

 

Or rather, ‘I will come and get you,’ for Spitamaneh charged his King. Although confident in his own defeat, Spitamaneh never wished to make it easy for the King. Perseus tried to wait for the last moment to sidestep out of the way of the large shield. The captain of his guards expected this, however, and thus his pace increased as he neared the target. Perseus could do nothing but brace as Spitamaneh bulldozed him.

 

The shield stunned Perseus, forcing him into the ground. His back, already painted in molted sweat and dirt, pushed up a dusting of sand. His eyes squeezed tightly together; he hated the huge, brute force attacks. The King was lucky that Spitamaneh was more renowned for speed than for strength. It reminded him of the battle of Issos, when he took a massive Immortal’s similar shield to the face.

 

His jaw was rattled, his head a bit fuzzy; the pain was not so unbearable that he could not stand. Taking in a deep breath of air, Perseus jumped from his back to his feet once more. He surveyed Spitamaneh, who had gone so fast that he did not have the ability to stop and take advantage of the damage he had done. Perseus tightened his grip on the _kopis_ in his hands. It was time to end it.

 

“Good idea, really,” Perseus’ bicep wiped the dirt off his face. Spitamaneh gave scarcely a nod in response. “Let’s go, then.”

 

Both men made moves towards each other. Perseus was dazed, his vision still foggy, but he was more than ready. He wanted to end this. His right _kopis_ feinted for Spitamaneh’s left side, his feet not giving away the feint below. As Spitamaneh slid to the side to avoid a cut, Perseus’ left leg burst out into a kick. His bare foot slammed into the Persian’s right, unprotected shin. Spitamaneh’s leg buckled, his knee driving into the ground. With a finality of stamina, Perseus spun round, pointing his sword at the back of Spitamaneh’s neck.

 

“Dead.”

 

Dull, unenthused claps echoed around the arena. Perseus rolled his eyes and offered a bare hand to his friend. Without any hesitation or annoyance, the two men clasped forearms; Perseus helped up his friend from the dirt. They smiled at each other, transitioning from foe to friend with practiced ease.

 

“Tired?”

 

“A bit,” the Persian replied to his King. “Though I doubt that you feel the same.”

 

Perseus understood what that meant, even if Spitamaneh himself did not truly mean it. His guards needed a break. He had worked them hard today, taking a full hour to beat them down. They deserved some rest, and Perseus was not against the idea of a break either. A break in his bath, with a nice hole to stick his cock into sounded perfect about now.

 

The two pairs of friendly feet made their way over to the gathered guards. Some, fresh, not having gone into battle; others were those that he had just defeated. A boy, perhaps sixteen years of age, handed the King a cup of water. With barely a look at the waterbearer, Perseus downed the cup. It fell deep into the recesses of the King’s stomach. The liquid was an energy boost for the King. Almost immediately, he felt able to go another round in the arena.

 

Perseus put the cup back onto the boy’s tray and finally got a good look in. The boy was a teenager, beard not yet having appeared. His face was angular, a bit long, and tanned. His eyes were a shade of pure green, like the orchards lining the riverbanks. His hair was a curly brown color, looking naturally soft. A smile from the King sent a light blush, which perhaps may have been more if the boy’s skin was not yet so tan, danced on the boy’s cheeks.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Mi-Mikkos, my King.”

 

“A pretty name, for a pretty boy,” Perseus declared, liking the way the blush made the younger man look. A glance at Mikkos’s arms showed that he was not a warrior. Perseus enjoyed that. He liked the cute, teenage boys that had not yet gone to war about as much as he preferred the cute, young girls like Piper. Both were much more innocent and eager to please than a hardened warrior.

 

It was not that Perseus was against fucking warriors, for more than a few were amazing lays. The King just rathered a softer body at this point, one more pliable. There were times when he would get out of the arena and feel an overwhelming desire to fight someone as they fucked. There were other times when, like now, all Perseus wanted to do was to fuck a submissive boy or girl into the bed with as much brute force as he could muster.

 

“Th-thank you, my King.”

 

Perseus smiled at the boy’s stutter. Power was an evil temptation, destroying good men and turning bad men worse. Perseus had witnessed the, well, power of power first hand, many times over. Thus he had always tried to distance himself from the trappings of power. His rooms were practical, not extravagant. His only excesses were the baths which he had had made for himself and the windows which he had demanded.

 

But when it came to his women and his boys, Perseus enjoyed power. He liked them younger, softer, submissive, and fearful of his power; he liked them stronger, harder, more willing to fight him, because eventually they would break to his power too. Fucking was a way to vent all of the worst parts of power without any repercussions. And, as they were always willing, fucking them as hard as they could take it gave him no guilt.

 

“I’m going to retire,” the King stated, turning to both batches of guards. “You boys get some rest. You all,” Perseus gestures towards the new guards as he said this. “Are with me.”

 

Perseus slung his arm over the boy’s waist. “As are you. Your services will be required in my room.”

 

“O-of course my King!”

 

The boy’s face showcased an honored mien, for it was a great honor. To bed the King was something young men and women dreamed of throughout his empire. The tales of terror that were spun outside of these borders were not sung inside them. The opposite, in most cases. Perseus usually disregarded these, for songs were sung about anyone who had thought about entering a battle. But he liked to use the legends to his advantage when wooing. As someone not well versed in the art of courting — there were some human subtleties that continued to persistently evade him — the King was happy enough to let the songs do the work for him.

 

Perseus smiled internally, the young boy shaking with eager anticipation in his grip. The King and his retinue began to move the short distance from the arena back to the castle. Yes, some rest would be nice.

 

Π

 

“Ungh! Ungh! Fuck!! FUCK!!”

 

Perseus sawed his cock, in and out, in and out, coursing through the boy’s tight ass. He had bent the boy over, pushing him onto all fours, and had mounted his rear with tenacity. All of this had happened merely seconds after the boy had gotten his clothes off, his smaller, hard cock was so smooth in Perseus’ hands. After a quick jerk, however, Perseus let it be. Sometimes, when he felt especially generous, the King would call in a girl to suck the cock of whichever boy he felt like fucking.

 

Those times, when the King got to take more than one at once — those were the good times, the times to remember.

 

When he had first entered the boy, Perseus’ cock had almost literally torn the boy in half. It was obvious that the boy had been fucked once or twice, but not by a cock as big as Perseus’. With the lubrication of the boy’s saliva, Perseus had thrust in as deeply as was possible. The boy’s ass felt so good on his cock.

 

The tight hole squeezed down upon Perseus’ cock, seemingly determined to keep him in there forever. Hands on his ass, Perseus grunted. Fuck in, fuck out. Over and over, he let the boy take his cock as deeply as he could.

 

He repeated his thrust, each time his cock delved deeper and deeper. After a few minutes, the boy had taken Perseus’ cock halfway down. A few minutes after that, Perseus’ whole cock disappeared into the boy’s ass. Perseus kept himself there for a few minutes, savoring the boy’s whimpers of pleasure. His hands groped the soft ass that the boy had, then decided on spanking it.

 

The boy shouted out, shock coating his tone. A red handprint began to form on the boy’s rear as Perseus stayed with his cock as far in as possible. The sound of Perseus’ slaps filled the room, the boy’s ass making a lovely percussion sound.

 

“Please…”

 

The boy’s timid voice just caused his cock to pulse harder and his balls to clench.

 

“Please what?”

 

“Please… please fuck me my King.”

 

Perseus, not used to taking orders in such a long time, nonetheless agreed with the boy. He ceased his slaps, and positioned himself to fuck the boy’s ass until he could no longer walk. However, before he could, there was a loud knock on the door.

 

“Yes?” Perseus’ tone was little more than a bestial growl. He did not like to be disturbed while mating.

 

“My King,” the guard outside of his door replied. “There is a message from Bacchias. He says he’s got something incredible to show you at the forges. Game changing, were his exact words.”

 

Perseus sighed, running a hand through the head of the whimpering boy. “I’ll be there when I’m done. It’s not urgent, is it?”

 

“No, my King. Not urgent, but he said you should come by today.”

 

“And I will. No leave me be.”

 

The guard said no more, so Perseus assumed that he had obeyed. Perseus leaned down to press a kiss against the boy’s neck. His free hand gave the boy’s balls a squeeze. “I am sorry about that. Let’s get back to business.”

 

The boy gave his now-signature whimper of response. Perseus began thrusting back and forth again, pulling halfway out before ramming all the way back in. Their balls joined, slapping each other. Perseus’ hands roamed around the boy’s body, feeling the soft skin as his cock pulsed.

 

Over and over again, each pistoning of his hips brought Perseus closer to climax. Deciding that the boy deserved it as well, Perseus grabbed the boy’s cock. His callused hand gave the soft phallus quick, tight jerks, unable to do much more due to how eagerly he fucked.

 

“Ugh! My King!”

 

Quicker jerks brought the boy to climax, and a few more thrusts brought Perseus his. His speed spilled into the boy’s ass, pushing in as deeply as possible. It filled the cavern, his white fluid repainting the boy’s insides. He let his cock breathe for a few moments, before pulling out. The boy collapsed onto the bed, his soft whimpers spilling from his cute pink lips.

 

Slipping out of the bed, Perseus leaned over to give the shivering boy a kiss on the lips. Pulling back before the boy could pull him back in with his gorgeous body, Perseus stood. He turned away, not hearing anything more from the boy, and grabbed some clothes from his wardrobe.

 

Perseus redressed himself, ditching the bright red _chlamys_ for a white _exomie_. He did not bother to wrap himself with undergarments. He did, however, take a pair of covered, leather sandals with him. He was a man who eschewed the sandal, as he enjoyed feeling the Earth or the city pulse beneath his feet. In battle he wore sandals and to the forge area.

 

The boy had passed out, Perseus noticed as he made his way over to the teenager that graced his bed. The boy’s ass looked red and sore -- Perseus could still see the cum leaking out of his ass. Whatever Bacchias had for him, it better have been good. Perseus’ cock was willing to go a few more rounds, but all that was put on hold.

 

Breathe, he told himself. Let it go.

 

Sex made him vicious, and sometimes it scared him how bestial he became before, during, and after the act. Bacchias deserved none of his anger, for there should have been no anger given. If a King was needed by his subjects, sex should not be an excuse for absence.

 

Still, the boy looked so peaceful on his bed. Perseus wished he could stay. His hand tried to, lingering on the doorway. It dragged Perseus’ eyes back for one last look. The tan skin contrasted in a pugnacious manner the dull white of Perseus’ bedsheets. His young, smooth back looked so inviting. Perseus wished he could stay.

 

His feet moved down the stone pathways, rapidly trying to outpace the building feeling of loneliness settled within. The walls were too cramped; they packed in his emotions, bottling them up until the pressure was too much and they would explode everywhere. Perseus’ heart beat against his chest. The walls of his ribs were too tight too, it seemed.

 

Breathe.

 

Breathe.

 

Breathe.

 

Perseus could not. His lungs disobeyed him, wheezing instead of breathing deeply. Perhaps they had tried their best. Perseus did not care. The hallway leading from his room to the rest of the castle was unguarded, a measure of privacy allowed for only by Perseus’ immense senses and skills. The privacy currently served him well, for it allowed a breakdown without prying eyes.

 

His eyes overflowed with tears, brought about by that crushing loneliness that was building upon his soul. Subsiding, the soul was losing the battle. His knees hit the stone. Before his head could follow, Perseus scrambled to the wall. He let his ass fall on the ground, and his back leaned against the wall.

 

Warm hands came up to grab his face, covering the shameful sight from the masses. Perseus could not remember the last time he had cried. He had barely even shed a tear by the time of Alexander’s death. Too much else had happened during that fateful week, and by the time it was over, Perseus had grieved enough internally.

 

The woman who had raised him. Her death. It had nearly broken him. That was the last time he had cried as much as this, though then he had cried far more.

 

Sallia. Her name was Sallia.

 

Was he forgetting that?

 

Age, though it could never claim his body, seemed to be taking his mind. Not in the way that it took a sextagenarian. Perseus’ mind could never go dull, but it could…

 

What was it doing now?

 

Burning out, perhaps. For a nearly a hundred years, since the arrival of King Philip to the Macedonian throne, Perseus had been fighting, advising. He had relentlessly gone from one war to the next, from one siege, battle, sack, or conquest to the next. The Macedonians knew nothing but fighting. At first, when he was a young man, by immortal standards, he was eager to fight. Up until that point he had only ever known the farm. He had trained, yes, but he was eager for more. For the real world.

 

Now he only longed for his farm. For the family he had had there. In those days he was never truly alone. Now it was all he ever was. Even Grover was soon to leave him. The conversation the two men -- almost brothers -- had shared after the meeting where they had decided on Grover’s course of action scared him.

 

He had poured his worries of being too passive, too patient, to his oldest friend. His advisor had soaked up his worries, soothed them, calmed him, then had dumped a whole new set of worries on the King.

 

_‘I’m not getting any younger, Perseus. We are not all immortal.’_

 

No, Grover, Perseus thought. That is the problem.

 

His oldest friend. How long did they have together still?

 

Perseus had soaked his hands thoroughly. He was so tired. Tired of worrying, tired of leading, tired of being alone. He had worked so hard to build his city, to give his people happiness. And what had he gotten for it? Nothing.

 

Yes, he enjoyed seeing his people happy and thriving, a reward in of itself. Yes, he enjoyed seeing the buildings which he had helped to create. Yes, he enjoyed seeing the smooth interaction of man and nature. But were any of those things reward enough for his job?

 

That was not the way to think. He had been given a task, by the gods themselves, and he was not bound to failure. He may have been bound to eternal loneliness, but not failure. He could never fail in his mission. His people depended on him.

 

With this thought as motivation, Perseus shoved himself off the wall. He dried his eyes with the ends of his dress, his nudity on full view for any guard who would walk in -- none would. Taking deep, steadying breaths, Perseus stepped forward. One foot in front of the other, until he reached the doors.

 

Π

 

The black smoke that was so prevalent here greeted Perseus the moment he entered Bacchias’s workshop. Taking great care not to step on any nails or swords -- the covered sandals were coming of use -- Perseus made his way over to his friend’s side.

 

Bacchias was a very large African man. He was a tower, though a little shorter than Kip, but thrice the dockmaster’s width. Bacchias was even double Perseus’ width. The man was one of the strongest people Perseus knew, and also one of the craftiest. Bacchias had forged Perseus all of his weapons since Perseus made him his forgemaster some twenty years ago. His best weapons had come from Bacchias, from the _harpe_ he carried now as a so-called ‘God King’ to his sets of _kopis_ blades to his _dorata_. All were of the highest quality, made with the best wootz steel, and then further refined by Bacchias’ expertise. Understanding none of the process of forging, Perseus just accepted the end results like a child with their first toy.

 

“My King!”

 

The larger African man got on one knee from behind his workbench. In his haste to get down, he had dropped a hammer onto the piece of armor he was working on, probably denting it. The kneeling man gave no worry to this predicament.

 

Perseus sighed, shaking his head at the sight. “Do you do this just to annoy me? Or are you a religious man that I have mistaken for a secular one this whole time?”

 

The blacksmith was a slave once, captured in a raid somewhere below the Sahara, sold in Egypt, then captured in Alexander’s conquest of the lands of the Nile. He had then become one of the many hangers-on to Alexander’s conquering armies, working in the back. When Alexander had died, Perseus had freed the slaves his former King had taken, offering them a better life if they would pledge themselves to him.

 

Bacchias was the first man to kneel. Perseus remembered the discomfort he had felt when thousands upon thousands of his soldiers and newly freed slaves knelt before him. It was not what he had asked for when he gave them his offer, but it was what they had given him. It was the beginning of his legend.

 

“I find it funny that my King is unable to handle so much praise.”

 

The man stood again with a loud, exaggerated groan. Stretching his arms out, he then straightened his back. His heavy footsteps resounded against a backdrop of hammers clanging and hisses of water cooling. They stopped in front of the King, and the head on top of said feet stared down the royal.

 

The two men stood there, shooting steady stares at each other. The guards behind Perseus shifted slightly. Bacchias’s brown eyes did not waver from the King’s now blue irises.

 

“You think you’re big, huh?”

 

Bacchias’s thin lips, stuck in a firm line, cracked into a wide smile.

 

“Bigger than you.”

 

Perseus laughed at that, and the two men embraced. Bacchias’s gigantic form nearly engulfed the King. He smelled of sweat and ash; the blacksmith had most definitely gotten Perseus’ _chlamys_ black. White was a mistake, Perseus realized too late.

 

Bacchias was not normally a man of smiles, as he took life quite seriously. There were few who could get him to ease up -- his King, his wife, his daughter. So Perseus took every chance he got to make his forgemaster smile. The man deserved it.

 

“How is Silena? Persea?”  Once the two men had broken away from each other’s grips, Perseus inquired after both the blacksmith’s wife and daughter, eponymously named for him,.

 

“Good, good! Persea is toddling now! You should see her move! She is like a snake! So swift! She will be the first female in your guard, of this I am certain!”

 

The comment made Perseus shift. Bacchias had the certain distinction of being a man who argued fervently for females having the ability to fight. Every time the two men met, the African made note to put his cause into the discussion. Every time, it made the King uncomfortable.

 

It was not that Perseus was against female warriors -- his cousin was a formidable archer amongst the worshippers of Artemis, and he had let the Amazons in the north of Anatolia retain their lifestyle. Quite the opposite, Perseus would have liked more females in his armies. As of now he had just the worshippers of Artemis, led by a fierce young woman named Zoe. They were allowed to be auxiliary units to his main armies, and kept themselves at a distance. But besides that, they were not integrated into the regular army.

 

It would be a good thing, Perseus thought. They would swell the numbers and change the way his wars were fought. They would be a welcome surprise at first, and a healthy addition in the far future. But he was, with the exception of a few, including Bacchias, alone in his belief. Many of his guards, Spitamaneh foremost amongst them, were fervently against the idea of female warriors, especially among the ranks of his _somatophylakes_. Letting the Amazons alone and giving the worshippers a place in his army, no matter their mythological position, were both still points of contention throughout his empire.

 

“Perhaps she will be,” Perseus replied through a tight jaw. Please, Bacchias, he begged internally, end this talk now. The guards behind Perseus, Enusat and Ochesius, were two men who agreed with the captain of the King’s guard. Women were not warriors, they said.

 

“Well,” the blacksmith clapped a dark, heavy hand on Perseus shoulder. The blow caused him to stumble slightly. He had been getting more used to them with every visit to the blacksmith’s forge, but as those visits had declined in frequency so too did his tolerance. “You have not visited in so long--”

 

“I have tried, my friend, trust me.”

 

“--that there is so much work I do not have time to show it all to you. No matter, that is not why I called.”

 

Perseus could only sigh when his friend blatantly disregarded his words. Sometimes it was hard being the “relaxed King.” Perseus could not always get his people to listen, so caught up in their own words as they were.

 

“Then why have you called, my old friend?”

 

“A weapon.”

 

The two words aggravated him. This was not why he had left that beautiful young boy alone in his bed. If a weapon was all that was needed, then Bacchias could have delivered it himself. Perseus tried to clear his mind of that pungent desire to fuck, but it was harder than the King would have liked.

 

“A weapon?”

 

Bacchias nodded, his large hand guiding Perseus into the open air of the courtyard used for more alchemical experiments. Bacchias was not just a regular blacksmith. He had experimented with a variety of things most left to scientists, seeing they could improve his weapons. In fact, one of those experiments had given Perseus his current _harpe_ and _kopis_ set.

 

‘Give me a few months,’ the blacksmith had said a few months ago. ‘And I shall give you every weapon like these.’

 

Perhaps that was why he had been called. In fact, as the duo walked to a table with an assortment of weapons laying upon it, Perseus was certain. Then they blew by it.

 

“Were those not the weapons?” Bacchias shook his head, his words apparently having left him.

  
“No, they are not the ones I wish to show you.” The forgemaster paused, then spun on his heel. He inspected the weapons again, as if to make sure he was speaking true word. “Well, they are the weapons I promised you, but they are not the reason that we are here.”

 

“You have me intrigued now, my friend.”

 

Perseus could hear Bacchias’s smirk without even having to see it. The last time the man had been so secretive, Perseus had gotten his special wootz steel blades. The walked over to a pond of water, built deep into the ground, that Perseus had not yet seen at the forge.

 

“This is new.”

 

“About a month old,” Bacchias commented, seemingly determined to increase the King’s guilt.

 

“I wanted to see you earlier but I--”

 

Bacchias cut off the King with his disappearance. He had walked into a deep closet that was bracketed and reinforced by what looked to be dense iron. There were chests of gold less defensed than this closet.

 

Bacchias reemerged with a clay pot in his hands. Both hands, in fact, for the pot looked quite heavy. And dangerous, by the way that Bacchias set it on the floor as if it were fine dishes rather than a regular clay pot. Bacchias then closed and bolted the closet. Two black hands, scarred from working in forges and fighting in battles, picked the pot back up.

 

“You remember the way oil burns, even on water?”

 

Perseus nodded, still wondering what was about to happen. His nerves were giddy, anticipation building inside of him. Whatever was about to happen, Perseus knew it was going to be good.

 

“It burns well, but slowly. It could take an hour to consume a whole ship, during which time the ship is still usable.”

 

Bacchias agreed with the King. “The Battle of Rhodes, yes?”

 

“Correct.”

 

“Well, watch what happens now.”

 

The blacksmith chucked the pot into the pond. The moment the pot hit the water, the top slid off. Brown sludge poured out of the top. As if the world had slowed time, Perseus watched with wide eyes at the transformation once the sludge hit the water. Upon contact, it erupted in flames.

 

“When the oil is all burnt up, the fire stops. And since the oil can be so thin, the fire might burn out too quickly.”

 

Bacchias, like a narrator of a play, talked over the roaring flame that now sat in the pool. As the pot emptied all of its contents, the fire jumped up, flames shooting at least a _bema_ into the sky. At the bottom, flames of blue and white danced underneath the red and orange hues.

 

“It is a hot burning flame, and due to the thickness of its base, it burns longer too.”

 

“And it explodes on contact with water?” Perseus did not need to state the obvious as a question, but he was shocked. The destruction this weapon could cause… he needed no words to explain.

 

“Aye, my King. And watch what it does to this crate.”

 

Two of Bacchias’s helpers stepped forward, their backs hunched over as they struggled to move the heavy box, wrapped in iron and bronze strips, into the fire. With a final heave, they threw the box upon the dance of flames.

 

Within a minute, the wood and metal had been turned into ash and molten liquid. The fire had left no wounded, only dead.

 

“It will burn for another hour.”

 

The somber tone Bacchias gave when describing the phenomenon underscored that he too knew the potential for destruction this could have. Perseus could destroy fleets with it. He could bring empires to their knees with it.

 

**THE TRIBUNE OF THE SOLDIERS**

* * *

  

“Move along now, keep it going, keep it going!”

 

In the mid-afternoon sun, Iason and his men directed the carts of horses and oxen struggling with the massive piles of wood that sat on their backs. The legions had paved a road, built a port, and had subsequently ordered dozens of pieces of siege equipment from Rome.

 

The order had come due to Iason’s entreatments to the consuls. After the skirmish had been won, with Iason’s troops deflecting the infiltrators, the consuls gave him the high honor of being listened to. No, it was not a promotion, but they, Lucius especially, seemed to trust his judgement. On council meetings they would call on him to survey the plans they were laying out throughout Sicilia. And, on some occasions, Lucius would call Iason in to talk, one on one, over tactics and Iason’s family in Rome.

 

The other tribunes did not take the favoritism well, but Iason could care less. His superiors counted on him and his men trusted him. He was in no need of his peers approval.

 

On the very first meeting after the battle, Iason could do little more than nod or shake his head. The events of the day had scared him, turning him from a boy to a man. Losing a man, getting an injury, taking a life -- all of these things had wizened him far more than any scrolls on tactics ever could.

 

But the battle had also emboldened him. He was respected by the legionnaires now, for no longer did they think him a product of nepotism even though he had no relation to either of the tribunes. The newfound respect gave him leeway to practice out his cognomen. _Corrector_. He had instituted reforms throughout the camp, bringing back order and cleanliness to his section of the legion. Instead of scorning the men, Iason realized the truth about them.

 

The legionnaires were not so disorderly because they were, by nature, disorderly, but rather because they were mostly bored. During battle their training had kicked in, taking over and pushing out the unruliness that rented their minds during the hours of boredom. They became the ruthless warriors they were meant to be. After the battle was over, Iason decided to harness more of that focus and obedience than his predecessors -- and superiors -- had.

 

A few days after the attack, Iason had realized that they had not gathered enough grain from the surrounding areas outside Agrigentum. It was not that there was a bad harvest, but because most of the grain was already harvested by the retreating Karthaginians. The Karthaginians would be able to hold out for far longer than they had hoped.

 

After learning this, Iason had gone to the consuls and begged them for reinforcements. There were not the trees around Sicilia to build up the siege equipment needed for a proper siege. Bring them from Italia, he had pleaded.

 

There is not a port nor road to ferry them in from, Quintus had replied.

 

Iason means to build one, Lucius had countered. The younger consul gave Iason the authority to go ahead and do so.

 

The building process was the point where Iason realized that his men were not bad soldiers but bored ones. He had observed their determination in both battle and labor now, and they had not come up lacking. Their work ethic was changed, though, from the time of setting up camp. Perhaps the battle had given them a spur in the rear.

 

“ _tribunus_ ,” came a by now familiar voice from his rear. Iason turned his attention away from the carts turning the bend of the road. Behind him stood Dacotus, his newly minted _decurio_ , his armor gleaming in the sunlight. It reminded Iason to look down and stare at his new armor: a gleaming bronze breastplate, a gilded _pteruges_ , and a horsehair plumed helmet, along with the purple _paludamentum_ he had already had.

 

“Dacotus, how fare things down below?”

 

Iason had sent his comrade down to survey the tail of the wagon train, making sure that it did not linger behind the others. Despite his desire to keep the loyal and observant man nearby, Iason gave him the first _decurio_ honor, and thus Dacotus got his own command of cavalry. Since Dacotus was neither of the _equites_ or senatorial class, the move was protested by his fellow tribunes and also Quintus. Lucius, being the understanding man that he was, had waved it through.

 

Already, Iason could see that there was a wide gulf between the two men. It had been widened by Iason’s ascendance, for it had displaced one of Quintus’s sons in line to be a _tribunus militum_. The man was perhaps Iason’s age, Egnatius was his name. Bright, but not particularly gifted in the art of leadership or tactics. Iason still was not sure what the man had done during the battle. Had he stood with the maniples? Or had he sat in his tent? Whatever it was, it was not of high import, that was for sure.

 

“Well enough,” the _decurio_ replied. “We’ve gotten the last of them through to your position.”

 

Iason glanced down at the wagons pulling in, and noticed that his second was indeed being truthful. The last wagon pulled in, and no more followed. It was a moving sight. Soon, the siege weapons would be done and the true battle could commence. All was working as planned.

 

“But I’m here because a messenger came to the rear, thinking you were in my position,” Iason tried not to get annoyed that they could be mistaken. His armor alone should have given the difference away. “And he told me that there was a meeting in the commanders’ tent. Apparently the wagons brought something additional from Rome.”

 

“Did he tell you what it was?”

 

Dacotus shook his head no in response, causing Iason’s curiosity levels to heighten. It appeared that his work here was done.

 

“Very well, you can take over from here.”

 

The Roman gave his stiff arm salute. Iason nodded his head. The two men parted, switching positions as Dacotus turned his back on Iason and Iason walked forward, back already turned.

 

Π

 

“Consuls?” Iason’s head broke the tent flap of the commanders’ tent. Inside, already gathered, were the twenty-three other tribunes, six per legion, most either ignoring or openly glaring at him. All were his elders. In the center of the men stood the consuls -- well, Lucius stood, and Quintus sat. They had gathered around the map table.

 

“Ah,” Lucius began, his black hair dulled without the appearance of the sun. “Iulius, how goes the moving of the weapons?”

 

Iason responded to the use of his _nomina_. “Well, sir. All the wagons have entered the camp, most without difficulty. All of the materials for weapons are ready, and my _decurio_ has begun the assembly.”

 

Lucius nodded in appreciation. “It seems the weapons were not the only things brought from Rome. A letter arrived with them. A letter from Perseaopolis.”

 

The room had gone quiet. Apparently the rest of the men had not yet heard of the letter, meaning the consuls had waited for Iason. They all knew what this meant. A letter from a foreign power, delivered first to Rome and then to their camp? It was a call for a ceasefire, at best. A declaration of war at worst.

 

Iason did not think it would come to the latter, but the King of Asia was said to be dangerously unpredictable. People had feared Alexander’s madness after a siege, but it was said that after Sinope rebelled in favor of Lysimachus, Perseus, having been so enraged by what he viewed as a betrayal had taken the whole of the _Pontus Euxinus_ and used it to smash the city to pieces. Iason was still unsure what to think about the stories from the East. Those that claimed that Perseus was an immortal demigod on a divine mission.

 

What he truly cared about, however, was his military might. The King of Asia had fought multiple wars simultaneously against the Antigonids and Lysimachids in Anatolia and the Ptolemies in Egypt. It was said that only the fortress of the Hellespont saved the Antigonids and Lysimachids from total annihilation. For the Egyptians, a desire to build the greatest city the world had ever seen -- or so Perseaopolis was called -- was their savior. Perseus, having driven the Ptolemies back into Africa, had turned round and built his city.

 

If that King decided to take action against them, after waiting for nearly twenty years in his city, building up his strength, then Rome would be unprepared. To truly take on the King of Asia, they would have to begin preparations immediately. It might take two or three years for Perseus to clear out the Antigonids and Lysimachids, then he would hit Epirus, then he would cross the Adriatic. His army was said to number half a million men, a number lacking of conscripts. The King of Asia was the biggest threat to Rome, they all knew, but it was said to be a far-off threat, a problem for the future.

 

“The King of Asia has demanded a ceasefire, and for both sides to negotiate a deal.”

 

Yes, Iason thought, that was the smart thing to do. A war with Rome over Karthage? Laughable, truly.

 

“And shall we?” One of the other tribunes asked, a dumb question if there ever was one.

 

“That would be idiotic.” Iason looked to find the source of the voice. The lips from which the words had left were pale, pink, and thin. The face on which those lips were attached to was black of hair, with olive skin and dark eyes as compliments. His was a younger face, perhaps fourteen. How he had gotten into this room was beyond Iason.

 

“Forgive my _decurio_ ,” one of the tribunes said. Ah, so that was how. “His father has asked me to keep an eye on him, help him gro--”

 

“No need for an apology,” Lucius replied, cutting into said apology. “The young man is right. There is no need. This is only an appeasement to the Karthaginians, to continue the trading relationship they have. The King has no actual desire to stop this conflict.”

 

Lucius paused to look around the room, staring into the eyes of each of the other tribunes before Iason’s. When their two pairs of eyes met, dull green and bright blue, Iason nodded. Lucius nodded back.

 

“Instead, we shall push on. With Iason’s plan,” at this a few grumbles of jealousy were heard. “We shall be able to quickly breach the city walls. By the time we have done that, two more legions will push through the northside of Sicilia. By the end of the year, we shall take the whole island.”

 

As men drummed their hands on the table, causing the pieces to shake, Iason stared at the young _decurio_ who had spoken out of turn. The dark eyes of the boy stared back at Iason, unwavering.

 

**THE KING OF THE NILE**  

* * *

 

 

Ptolemy Karteros sat opposite his beautiful mistress. She was, for all intents and purposes, a perfect woman. From the tribes of Arabia, she had come to him as a pleasure slave. Her dark hair was exotic, her tanned skin a bronzed perfection, her brown eyes always warm with lust. She tolerated being his second woman with graceful dignity. All in all, Zia Rashid was everything any man could want in a woman.

 

She was the polar opposite of his wife. Arsinoe was a plump woman, taken by the bounty of the Nile. Her favorite activity was eating, and she drowned herself in the shitty, frothy wines of Egypt.

 

Karteros’s father had built up Alexandria even further after the conqueror had died. It was his legacy, the beautiful Library and Museum, the intellectualism of the populace, the grandeur of the architecture. His father, Ptolemy Soter, had imported the best of Hellenistic culture to Alexandria, including the best Hellenic foods and wines. Yet Arsinoe, Lysimachus’s daughter, a Greek herself, did not seem to care for any of it. She got fat, to the point where it was hard for Karteros to look upon her sometimes.

 

On the other hand, Zia slowly sipped the Greek wine he had had brought over from the remaining holdout he had north of the _Thalassa_ \-- _Kypros_. Even that large island was under threat of siege, for soon enough Perseus would get bored with building a city and would turn to war once more. He had heard enough from his father, never having met the man, that Perseus’ days of mercy would soon be over, and then he would come for what he thought was his.

 

“What troubles you, my love?”

 

The twittering of birds flung out from all directions, a hoard of arrows streaming down and coating the sky with their ubiquity. The sun pushed in through the sides of the _veranta_ , and a cool breeze swept in to counter the heat of Alexandria.

 

“Perseus.”

 

The beautiful Arabian woman sighed, her hands staying on the gleaming golden goblet which held the blood red wine. She was used to these conversations as Karteros tried his best to integrate her into the politics and strategy of life as a King. He respected her mind, though not as much as he respected her body, and tried to gleam as many gems from it as possible. Of course, if his council knew what he divulged to her, they would be livid. Not that they would ever know, since the slaves that poured the wine and served the dishes were all mute. A horrid practice, Karteros agreed, but one that should be kept.

 

Perseus had gone about it all wrong, in his opinion. Freeing his slaves, making his army purely volunteer -- a cute and noble gesture, but in the end the novelty of it all would fade. There would be demands for labor that Perseus could not uphold, demands for troops his people would not wish to meet. And when that time came, soon, Karteros expected, it would be all over for the immortal King.

 

The idea that the King was immortal was not laugable to Karteros, for he respected his father that much. Others who had been with Alexander and Perseus could attest that the King was well over a hundred years at this point, yet still looked to be a man of his mid-twenties. He believed the stories, about Perseus’ abilities, but he was unsure as to what to do with that knowledge.

 

If the King was truly so powerful, then why had he not already taken the _Thalassa_ and turned it inside out? Broken every fleet that ever thought about gracing the waters he had control over? It was what Karteros would have done. Though perhaps that was why Perseus had been gifted those powers. If a man as powerful as he was truly willing to use those powers for whatever purpose he wished, the devastation would be immense. Sinope all over again, repeated throughout all the foolish cities that dared to oppose the King of Asia.

 

“You should try to have him killed the soft way. Poison, a dagger through his heart as he sleeps. You won’t even have to claim responsibility and that foolish thing you call a conscious would never bother you.”

 

Looking up through his eyelashes, Karteros gave a blank, unimpressed stare to his woman. She accepted it with a roll of her eyes. “Oh, yes, I forgot, he is immortal. A pity, really.”

 

She looked out through the open sides of the _veranta_ , staring at the blue _Thalassa_. It was hidden behind a bed of luscious green plants and vivid flowers. Not the Hanging Gardens, nor the Palace of Perseus, but a comfortable spot to rest and dine nonetheless.

 

“If he is immortal, is he not inevitable? Why do you continue to fight him?”

 

“He isn’t inevitable. He is not, as much as he may think he is, the tide. He can be stopped.” Karteros swirled the cup in his hands, staring at the sloshy liquid inside that left no mark upon the golden basin. “He can be tired, he can be weakened. His army can be defeated, his people can be relieved of their disgusting belief in him.”

 

“You are jealous that he is a god, hmm?”

 

Zia replaced the goblet of wine onto the mosaic table. She turned her head, catching his brown eyes with hers. Her lips turned upwards with that tell-tale smirk of hers, giving away that she was about to turn his night from moody to the most exciting.

 

“Remove this,” she ordered, the commanding sound spilling out of her mouth like wine from a jug, “now.”

 

Fearful slaves rushed in to grab the plates and wine from the table. Their bare feet banged on the tiled floor, hurried patterns trying to do their work with utmost efficiency. Their delicate hands slipped underneath the plates, hoisting them upwards through the air. They cleaned off the table with quick washcloths.

 

Throughout all of this, Zia watched with a bored smile plastered upon her face. She was waiting as patiently as a woman such as her could, her tapping fingers beating a tune of excitement. She loved to fuck, and Karteros hated to deny this perfect woman what she loved to.

 

Once the table was clean, she perched her hands on the ledge. She pulled herself onto the table, her eyes not having left his since catching his gaze minutes ago. Her loose dress hung down, giving him a view of her lean breasts and hard nipples. Behind her, her voluptuous ass thrust into the sky, turning his dick into iron.

 

“Does my King need a reminder of the divine pleasures?”

 

All thoughts of the King of Asia left his mind. Her body, with all of its temptations, had forced the worries from his mind.

 

**THE DAUGHTER OF ATHENS**

* * *

 

The docks West of Pergamon were a flurry of activity. Perseid ships had hounded them with their ubiquity the moment they hit Lesbos. Ship after ship had joined with theirs, their decks teeming with soldiers and sailors. At first it was the cargo ships, but as they got closer to the makeshift port, that had been so built up by the siege, triremes and quinqueremes began to appear. Their ship, which had changed at Sounion, was boarded and searched by lightly armored hoplites.

 

In the distance, distracting Boethus and Matthias, were two massive _deceres_ , towering out of the still bay. Ten sets of oars, each one longer than the one below, sat out of the water. Their blades had not yet pierced. Matthias and Boethus both wished to hurry to the railing of their ship, to gaze upon the colossuses, but the checking soldiers restricted their movements.

 

The hoplites were checking for any form of identification and contraband. It was why Annabeth had begged her father _not_ to send them to Pergamon. The city had been under siege for half a year by the Perseids. It was rumored that the siege was so boring Perseus himself had left the sight to focus on building his city. Apparently devastating one city in the past decade was enough for the God King. Being here could be their doom, for it was unknown to Annabeth how much control he had over his soldiers this far away.

 

Their ship was going to drop off food for the Perseids in Pergamon, then sail around the southern coast of Anatolia. They would stay on the ship all the way until it reached the mouth of the Orontes, where Perseaopolis stood. There they would disembark, go to the King of Asia, and beseech him of their cause. But it seemed that their plans were soon for disaster.

 

“Who are those four?”

 

With her enhanced senses, Annabeth could hear the marines conversing with the captain of their ship. The sandals they wore shifted along the floorboard. They were bored. Tired of a long siege consisting of nearly nothing but waiting.

 

“Athenian refugees,” the gruff captain responded. Annabeth was not a fan of his. He had respected her space, but she disliked the constant looks he and his men sent her.

 

“Verifiable?”

 

“Dependent on my word. I picked them up, made a deal with the father.”

 

“Who was the father?”

 

The captain shifted as Annabeth kept a watchful eye on the conversation. Would he give them up? Would it matter? At this point, their identity was either their savior or their doom. It was known that the Macedonians were not fans of the Athenians, and the same was true in the opposite direction. Additionally, Perseus was the one who had smashed Athens’s army at the mighty climax of the Lamian war. She was not sure if he was one to hold a grudge or not.

 

“Family of one of the Athenian _strategoi_ , I think from the Chasos _deme_.”

 

The guard not talking turned his head to gaze upon the family. His eyes raked over the boys, then over Helen, still quite gorgeous at twenty-two. They lingered on her chest, not extremely large like some of the whores Annabeth knew back in Athens, but still perky and large enough to attract passing glances, even covered. Annabeth’s own chest was meager in comparison, not that she minded. She was still young, Helen told her. As if she wanted them larger. Smaller breasts were easier to fight with. They were not as cumbersome.

 

The guard turned their vision to her, gazing upon her face, its perfect beauty a product of her mother’s mastery of the chisel, then stared over her body. It was not as impressive to him, for he quickly looked back upon her face. She stared back at him, eyes hard. He noticed her as a human for the first time, quite shocked by her harsh gaze. The startle dissipated as his eyes narrowed, sending her a glare back.

 

“What’s the girl’s problem?”

 

“Haven’t you heard the rumors?”

 

The guards shook their heads, moving back from her face to the captain’s once more. Every now and then she noticed them sneaking looks at her.

 

“What are they?”

 

“She’s said to be the daughter of Athena.”

 

Both guards replied with bursting laughter, disbelief present by the very act itself. Of course, few believed her. The few children Athena had had throughout history were male, never female. What use was a female child of the goddess of strategy? Her brain, the men said, was not an Athenian brain, purely out of the fact that she was a woman. Thoughts of slaughtering those men now with her father’s dagger ran through her mind. She was smarter than all of them, and now they would never know it.

 

“You believe that shit?”

 

“Never seen a girl such as her, don’t know if its true, but it might be. Was big gossip when she was even a babe.”

 

The captain directed a quick glance at her, eyes catching her determined gaze. Quickly, his own retreated.

 

“And doesn’t she seem so damn perceptive for a girl? I thought them shit too, until she boarded my boat…”

 

For some reason, them talking about her, the praise that the captain gave to her -- it made her feel warm inside. She liked it, and she decided to listen instead of play with Matthias who was tugging her shin. Assuming he just wanted to stare at the fleet, she brushed him off to hear more of the praise.

 

“Why are they here?”

 

“Father gave me a letter, said it was for the King of Asia himself.”

 

“So you haven’t read it?”

 

The captain gave a shaky head as a response. Obviously, he did not know how to reseal a scroll. “I didn’t even dare. Seemed important, he said he sent out a few on carrier ships and one by pigeon. I guess he wanted the King to read it, huh?”

 

“Give it here,” one of the guards said. “We’ll take them off your hands then.”

 

“I-I was given specific orders by --”

 

“By a dead man,” one of the guards replied monotonously, as if the idea of a daughter of Athena bored him. The word “dead” sent a ripple through Annabeth’s stomach. Thinking about the fact that her father was with Hades now made her both sad and confused simultaneously. She mourned him on the boat from Sounion originally, but as the soft cries faded anger replaced the tears. He had failed so much with regards to her, had failed to bring her to her potential. She hated him for that.

 

“Give the letter here and hand over the family. They won’t be harmed. No use in it, anyways.”

 

“I don’t know about you but I’d like to see how those girls perform with each --”

 

The guard who was so insensitive with respect to her father nudged the lewd one angrily. “None of that now. We’ll see if the King actually wants to do anything with them first.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure he’d love to do the same thing I want to do--”

 

“Shut up, for the sake of the Gods! You want to get fucked for fucking those two?!”

 

The bickering men made her sick. Neither of them seemed to care about her actual wellbeing, only the worth they could bring her if brought before the King of Asia. She was nothing but a package, her and her step-mother pieces of meat to be used by whomever had the most power behind their cock.

 

“Alright, alright. Look,” the guard put his hand on the shoulder of the captain. The older man looked frightened by the gesture. “Just give ‘em here, and we’ll keep ‘em safe. Your contract’ll be complete. That sound good?”

 

Frightened into submission by the softest of harsh gestures, the captain vigorously nodded. He disappeared into his cabin. Annabeth’s heart pounded, turning to her step-mother.

 

“The captain’s given us up.”

 

Her face blanched, tan skin turning white as blood faded from the cheeks back into the dark recesses of her heart. The step-mother she had loathed so much for her meaningless, servitude of existence looked petrified. This was not the plan. Not one bit.

 

“No, he was paid to--”

 

Annabeth cut off what would surely be a frightened, unintelligible rambling before it could really get going. Something such as this was exactly what she feared, what she had warned her father about. Not even Helen had listened, thinking with her mind being absent, that the sailor would be good and take them all the way because he had honor. It was not that the captain operated without honor, but that a slightly honorable man’s honor could only go so far. A gauntleted hand on his wrist seemed to be the limit, unfortunately.

 

“We have to accept it,” Annabeth said. She had looked for a way out, but the ship was in the middle of the bay, surrounded by a massive flotilla of Perseid ships. Marines patrolled the decks of those ships, which were themselves armed with ballista and onagers. There was no option other than to give in. Let themselves accept whatever fate there was here. After all, could it be worse than what awaited them in Perseaopolis?

 

Annabeth then remembered the stares those men had given her and her stepmother, of the less than safe feeling she had gotten when they told the captain that they would keep them ‘safe.’ Yes, it could be. For all she knew, the King of Asia had no desire for her or her body --

 

That was false, and she knew it. The King was a male, a powerful male, and like all powerful males he liked to fuck whatever was less powerful than him. Herself included. But she had no knowledge as to whether or not the King would let her get fucked by the rest of his men. She doubted it, for Kings of any Hellenic descent, even if they were Macedonian, had to have at least some honor. Except, perhaps Perseus was not a man of Hellenic honor.

 

The path her thoughts had walked down was one she should not have traveled, for she had apparently gotten lost. At the end of the trail, her thoughts bumped against reality, which had taken the form of a Perseid hoplite. Luckily for the young Athenian, this was not the man more ready to use her for pleasure, but the man more ready to bring her to the King for a reward. His Phrygian helmet, with its odd metal appendage, sat over a few peeping blonde curls. Green irises pooled in the bed of shared whites that framed everyone's eyes.

 

His nose was crooked, though not from the violent act of birth. Annabeth had witnessed a few birthings, most notably her twin brothers. That her stepmother had survived that was a miracle, and a testament to her future strength as a mother. Instead this guard’s nose was crooked from war or some other struggle. His smile was nonexistent, his lips only making a thin line of themselves.

 

Green eyes pushed against her grey ones, sizing her up, trying to figure out who she was, truly. She pushed back, trying to portray the level of determination that was slowly bubbling up inside of her. No one could her, for she was a daughter of Athena. Annabeth of the _phyle_ Chasos was a fighter until the end, with or without her father’s dagger.

 

The dagger rested comfortably on her thigh.

 

She would not, she hoped, have to use it now. The Athenian girl had not needed to use it again, though she had wanted to on multiple occasions, but her father’s knife was a reassuring weight. She had felt safer and bolder with it there than ever before in her life.

 

“You the one they say is the daughter of Athena?”

 

The guard was perhaps a good _pous_ taller than her current height, standing about an _orgyia_ above the deck of the ship. Annabeth thought that she could grow some more still.

 

“I am the daughter of Athena.”

 

She was impressed by the tone in her voice, with how little it staggered like a drunk man or fumbled like a beggar with coin. It sounded far older than her fourteen years of age.

 

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

 

His gauntleted hand repeated an earlier motion. It fell onto her shoulder from above, grasping it with the same amount of force her father once had, whenever he had found her reading in his study.

 

“Let’s go.”

 

Annabeth followed his hand, but her head rebelled and turned. She gazed upon the rest of her family. The other guard, who seemed very interested in her stepmother, placed his hands on both the brunette’s shoulders. Helen quaked visibly with fear. At least she knew enough to know that this was not good. Matthias and Boethus both trailed along with their mother, concern playing a show across their faces. Matthias caught her eyes with his own, the Stoic facade dissipating. It had been forced out to make room for the fear that was taking over.

 

She gave her little brother what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

 

His gaze remained unchanged. She had, it seemed, failed. She was a daughter of Athena, not of Hera or Hestia.

 

A few more guards had boarded the vessel while she had gotten lost in her thoughts. They had disappeared into their rooms without her noticing. Annabeth scolded herself for her lack of observation. What if they had meant foul things? Though it was not as though she could have done much to stop them, as her brain had previously discovered. Though it was not as if she should have worried, for these guards only wished to pull up her and her family’s travel items.

 

Her feet stumbled over the loose planks of the cargo ship’s deck. In the corner of her eye the captain watched the procession of triumphing soldiers lead their captives into their trireme. Behind his rigid pose stretched the blue expanse of the Aegean, and all of Greece sat further behind that.

 

Π

 

Annabeth and her family had sat in the well of the trireme for half an hour as the ship docked and the crew unloaded. They had been ferried into the back of a cart, their luggage graced with another cart. They had sat for four hours in the back of that cart. Along the way they had passed towns burnt to the ground, farms barren of crops, and hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers.

 

The soldiers came in all varieties -- dead ones, wounded ones, fresh ones; young ones, old ones; blonde ones, brunette ones, bald ones; black skinned ones, white skinned ones, ones with skins in between both extrema; skinny ones, strong ones; spear-bearing ones, sword bearing ones, bow and quiver bearing ones; walking ones, limping ones, cart-riding ones, horseback riding ones; fearful ones, calm ones, bored ones; ones going to war, ones coming from war.

 

Watching them as she rode by was like watching a play that she had snuck into once last year. A year now seemed like a lifetime ago.

 

They had not spoken to one another, to any guards, to the passing soldiers. Their code of conduct was silence. The road from the docks to Pergamon was impressive, smooth as a road of that length could be, and it had been constructed without curve or diversion. A straight, smooth road from the docks to the camps.

 

As Annabeth approached the camp, her mind went into overdrive. She noticed more and more, from the slight movements of the two new guards who had switched with the guards from the ship, to the density of the farms as they decreased the distance between the cart and Pergamon, to the differentiation of smells. She had learned that a burnt town smells worse than a burnt farm, which was intuitive but proving it with evidence was important.

 

The cart stopped. Annabeth strained to see what was going on ahead of them in the wagon train, but could get no clear view. Unfortunately, she could not see in front of the cart, because the soldiers were blocking her view. Nor were any of her advanced senses doing her much good. The wagon train was too long for her to get any real idea of what was happening. It angered her to no end, being in the dark like this. She did not even consider the idea of speaking to get a clear understanding. That would break her family’s code of conduct.

 

Matthias sat at her side, playing with his fingers. His lean fingers wove in and out of the others, doing the best job they could to distract his bored mind. The journey had not been too kind on the young boys, hyperactive and inquisitive as they were. Both had done a good job of it so far, and Annabeth commended them silently for how non-loquacious they were being. Soon, she hoped, they could get the chance to be alone with their mother. Annabeth assumed that she herself would have to settle down with the commander, talking with him about who she was and what she was to see the King for.

 

As much as she would rather not see the King. The sea had freed her, even in the confines of the boat, from the chains Athens had placed upon her. Being able to use the knife, being able to think and read without any burdens of being a proper woman -- for there was no one who truly cared in these turbulent times -- were all liberating factors. Yet that would change in her near future, come crashing down as she became the lifeless bride of a King who wanted her for an heir, and nothing less. The thought sickened her, as it had for the past two weeks of sea travel. More so than the undulations, more so than the salty air, the thought of chains sickened her the most.

 

A loud shout from a few wagons ahead of her. A sudden movement of a cart, belied by the crunch of wheels. A soft stamp of horse hooves against the cobbled road. These things gave away the fact that the wagon train was moving again. She braced herself as the horses on their cart jolted alive. They took a few steps, then stopped again.

 

That action repeated itself once more before Annabeth’s brain recognized the idea of the pattern. Annabeth herself had been through this many times before at shops and at restaurants. They were stuck in a queue, probably to get into the camp.

 

A few more sudden jolts of beginning and a few more sudden jolts of ending passed before Annabeth could hear the clamor of the camp. Shouts of hoarse men, clomping of horses hooves, grinding of siege wheels. More jolts later, and Annabeth could hear the hammering of nails and the grunts of men lugging heavy things around. What exactly, she was unsure, but Annabeth had a sense that the siege was reaching a climax. The men were preparing to finally take the last holdout of Lysimachus’s failing Anatolian empire.

 

Her ears picked up heightened voices, meaning that they were closer. There was one voice, consistently repeating his designated mantra: “Halt for inspections. Anything to declare?” Each cart driver answered back with a blank “no,” but unlike the inspector their voices were different. Some were more Hellenic, some were Thracian, some were Persian, and some were of places she did not recognize. Those voices had owners who hailed from the farthest parts of Perseus’ empire, which was said to stretch all the way to India.

 

“Hail Perseus,” each of them said. Their voices were independent, but they had all been bound together by their words. They might not have all been followers of the King of Asia’s heretic cult, but they all respected him as their King.

 

The cart stopped again. Annabeth opened her eyes, taking in the now excited irises of her brothers. Their pupils darted to and fro, taking in the scene with great enthusiasm. The soldiers, carts, and siege engines that filled out on either side of the massive pickets and ditches on either side of the road were enrapturing to their masculinity. Though Annabeth could not truthfully say the scene was without interest to her either. Something about the efficiency of it all was breathtaking in its beauty.

 

The inspector said his words. This time, the cart driver replied with words different than the usual “no.”

 

“We got a family in the back of here. One mother, a daughter, two sons.”

 

“From where?”

 

“Athens. Refugees, apparently the family of the _strategoi_.”

 

“Really now?” Annabeth could hear the interest pique in the man’s voice. There was an inquisitive nature to the tune of his words.

 

“Aye. They’ve got a note, too, sent to the King.”

 

“You sound like there’s something else,” the inspector replied.

 

The next time the driver spoke, his words had dimmed in volume, suggesting that he had dipped into a whisper. “The guards that gave em to me said that the daughter is Athena’s.”

 

“Wait, the Chasos?”

 

“You know about her?”

 

“Aye, I’ve got a cousin in Athens. He loves the gossip. I’ve heard of her.”

 

“So are you going to let em in?”

 

“Yeah, let’s let em in. I’ll have a squadron take them to the commander.”

 

The guards came around to the back of the cart, unhitching the back with a lack of grace. Two of them put their gloved hands out. They expected a hand in reply.

 

“Come along now, let’s get a move on.”

 

Neither of these guards seemed half as interested in the bodies and faces of the two women in carts as the guards at the docks. Their eyes did not linger like the marines’ had, instead barely reaching her own out of what she thought was extreme boredom. Similarly dislike the marines, these men wore a set of armor, dark in color, that was helmed by a more Corinthian style helmet. Dark plumes ran up from the guards’ heads, their tanned faces surrounded by the bronze-trimmed cheek-guards.

 

The chestpiece was made out of either darkened leather or some sort of black metal, possibly iron. The guard on the right had a piece that pretended to be his physique, while the guard on her left had a piece that was outlined by bronze-lined feathers.

 

Through the corner of her eye, Annabeth caught a frightened glance from Helen. The woman, whom she had barely spoken to since they were grabbed by the guards on the boat, was oddly deferring to her. The entire trip she had barely said a word to Annabeth, letting the younger woman entertain Matthias, but mostly trying not to interact with her. And then, on the boat, she had, in that moment of panic, instantly turned to Annabeth for advice. Not that Annabeth was complaining, for it was far past time for that.

 

The daughter of Athena gave a supportive head nod, tilting her greatest weapon in the direction of the two guards. She witnessed Helen give a quick, submissive nod. The mother took a hold of the two boys, leading them to the guards. Neither of the two gave any sign of being too upset with this proposal. Their tiny hands eagerly grasped the hands outstretched towards them. Annabeth watched the guards, noticing the gentle way they placed the two boys on the ground, where Annabeth could not see them.

 

“You two ladies are next, hurry it up.”

 

Their hands moved in a circular motion, that universal gesture to get a move-on that she was accustomed to back home. Annabeth stood, walking behind Helen, staring at the guards. She was surprised by the gentle nature in which they took her siblings, and wanted to wait and observe if they used the same level of kindness on her stepmother, who was far more attractive than the two boys.

 

The way in which they respectfully helped Helen down the cart, without any excess movements towards her chest or rear or stomach, indicated that they were perhaps more honorable men than those she had encountered at sea. The sea was liberating, even she had felt it, and thus mayhaps that was why those men who took to the sea felt more at ease drinking and fucking.

 

“You too lass.”

 

Afraid of a sudden change of demeanor, Annabeth hesitated for a quick moment as they turned back to face her. She watched their hands, covered in a strap of cloth for holding a sword, and wondered if they would change their act the moment she gave them her hands. Shaking her head, she dispelled any thought of disobedience now from her mind. There was no way that she could stop them from doing what they wished with her body, so there was no use in fighting it.

 

She placed her softer hands, that had not had the freedom to grasp weapons as their hands had had, in theirs. They just held them their, without any further movements, and allowed her to step down on her own. Their actions were refreshing.

 

“My men will grab your stuff as we move down to the commander’s tent. He’ll want to talk with you.”

 

The guard on her right turned to look at her, inspecting her this time not as a suitor might have but as one of the _strategoi_ observing the battle table might have. Her glanced on her curled blonde hair, then on her grey eyes. He took in the lines of her nose and the angle of her cheekbones.

 

“I think your story might not be as far-fetched as one might originally expect.”

 

The Perseid soldier slipped his hand from hers, then gestured outwards, to the gate. Her feet carried her forward, and she heard the footsteps of her family members behind her. They all walked with united feet to the gates. The guards nodded at the inspector, and a few more soldiers joined them in their march. The comfortable weight on her thigh grew heavier as the extra four troops joined the original two. She did not know what they were needed for, and thus scared her.

 

As they continued their march into the heart of the camp, her eyes picked up upon the orderliness of the camp. The huts for the men were arranged in rows of elongated ‘υ’s. She could not see the whole way down these rows, separated by a trampled dirt path. The path that her contingent was on was crowded with horses and carts, and groups of drilling soldiers. It sloped upwards along a hill. At the precipice of this hill sat her final destination, she thought.

 

Off to the sides, soldiers practiced their spear- and swordplay, their archery, their unarmed combat. Black smoke billowed into the sky, evidence of a forge nearby. She saw men drilling with every different imaginable skin tone. A scene like this was impossible in xenophobic Athens. A scene like this also unsettled her. Was there no consequence for such mingling?

 

As a daughter of Athena, Annabeth could see the wisdom in the combination of forces. As an Athenian, as someone who was of the times, she wondered if there were ever complications from such mixing. There had to have been.

 

But even that fusion was not the most shocking aspect of the camp.

 

Instead it was the fusion of male and female archers. Female.

 

She could scarcely believe her eyes.

 

Apparently it was too much for Helen too, for the older woman gasped at the women, dressed not in a traditional _peplos_ but instead in a more mobile _himation_ , the fabric cut above her knees. To cover the other breast not covered by the clothing, the archers wore a _strophion_. The outfit fascinated Annabeth, for it allowed for a dagger, which the women had, to be snuck into the belt, and a quiver, which the women had, to be slung around the shoulder.

 

The women and men were slinging arrows at a target some thirty yards away, and, from what Annabeth’s enhanced senses could tell, were doing fairly well the both of them. They were intermixed, dispersed alternatingly, one man then one woman. There was a few choice curse words hurled at the others, but nothing that felt out of the realms of competition.

 

“That’s…” Helen’s words were scarcely more than a whisper, but they were enough for one of her guards to agree with her tone.

 

“Disgusting, aye. Why the King lets them continue is beyond me, he should know better than that, he’s far older than any of us. More than enough time to get to truly know women.”

 

“You haven’t needed them in battle yet,” another soldier countered. He was the one that had said he thought her story could be believed. Annabeth decided that she liked him well enough. Here was the tension the uniting of skin tones was lacking. “One of them put two arrows through a guy about to kill me before I could even take my weapon out of another dead body.”

 

“You just want to fuck the leaders,” a guard to her left said. Helen’s eyes went wide, her children’s presence apparently forgotten by the men.

 

“Just quiet, alright?” The nice guard looked down at the boys. “There are children here. Now, go get them settled in an open hut. Nusku and I can take the girl from here.”

 

The piggish guard grumbled, but obeyed anyways. He and the three new guards took Helen and the boys away. Suddenly, Annabeth worried about her fate again. She would be alone with just the commander. And two guards. No matter how nice they were, Annabeth did not like her chances.

 

Her fingers drummed against the inside of her thigh, where her father’s curved blade was set. She hoped she did not have to use it. If it was just her and the commander alone, she might be able to get a chance at a quick escape.

 

Matthias and Boethus’s curious faces wormed their way into her mind like a rat into an old house. Killing the commander would doom them -- and Helen -- to a fate perhaps worse than death. Annabeth took a deep breathe. She was a daughter of Athena. She would survive.

 

The two guards led her without another word to the commander’s tent, which was, as she had previously assumed, at the pinnacle of the hill. She snuck a quick glance down at the female archers, looking for some courage. They were out of sight, but she could still hear the thump of their arrows from here. She hoped it would be enough.

 

While the soldiers announced her presence to the commander, and the mystery of her birth, she took deep, steadying breaths. She could do this. She had to. Power emanated from that tent, not just the power of command but the power that he might have over her if they were to be alone. He could do things to her that would haunt her for the rest of her life, and she would be allowed to do nothing in response for fear of hurting her brothers.

 

A “come in” came from inside. The guard pushed her in, but followed. He opened the flap, causing Annabeth to be first inside. She was not sure if his presence was reassuring or not.

 

The inside of the tent shocked her so much that she lost the fear. Expecting just a elderly man in full battle dress that would never be worn, she was greeted instead by two people, both quite young. Sitting on a cot, which was the only furniture in the room besides a poor desk, a stool, and a chair, was a man perhaps no older than twenty years of age. A piece of black armor that acted as the definition of his muscles sat over a tanned chest, but the end of the cuirass was red cloth, not grey. He had brown hair, curled in that classic Hellenistic fashion, and light, blue eyes. The ends of his pink lips were flanked by smile lines.

 

He was not the most shocking aspect of the room, however. Rather, it was the black haired woman, looking to be closer in age to Helen than to her, that gave her the most interest. Her face was as tan as anyone living in the lands of the _Thalassa_. She wore armor similar to that of the female archers outside, but more intricate. Gold lace threaded into her _strophion_ , and at her side sat a shield, faced away from Annabeth, and a long, black spear. Next to the spear sat a bow and a quiver.

 

“You’re the one who claims to be the daughter of Athena?”

 

If Annabeth was asked that question one more time she swore she would --

 

“I see it, for sure.”

 

The brunette man turned to stare at the woman who had spoken. “I agree.”

 

The commander -- she assumed he was the commander, for a woman commander, even with the just witnessed scene, would be too much for her to handle -- stood from his cot. His accompanying groan indicated that perhaps he was not feeling the most agile. Nevertheless, he stiffly limped to her side.

 

“Forgive my terrible mobility, but I trained too hard in the pit today. My legs are a bit sore. On any rate,” he stuck out a hand. “I am Malkomemnon. But call me Malkom, for my mother had apparently never said my name out loud before she gave it to me.”

 

Involuntarily, Annabeth’s lips tipped upwards, forming a smirk. This was not what she had been expecting, but that did not mean she should not constantly be on guard. Looking down, she realized that his outstretched hand was waiting. A handshake. He wanted a handshake.

 

Her day was full of surprises.

 

Their hands met on each other forearms, a thoroughly new acceptance that Annabeth enjoyed. As if sensing her euphoria, Malkom smiled at her. Their arms broke apart.

 

“And this moody warrior is --”

 

The woman had stood while Malkom greeted her. A tan hand, covered in a leather archery gauntlet, shot out for Annabeth’s. “Thalia.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

Perseid Armor:

 

Malkom Armor:

Thalia/Huntress Armor:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, two things. First off, Bacchias is Beckendorf.
> 
> Second off, update notes:  
> If chapter VI ends up being a battle sequence, expect it to be long. Like 20k words long. If this is the case, I'm going to write IV and V over the next two weeks for two weeks of regular updates before sending out VI. That's all tentative, though.
> 
> Anyways, please feel free to review with any comments or questions! Thank you all so much for the support so far!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what y'all think about it so far - comments on characters, the minuscule amount of plot I've given y'all, etc.
> 
> This is a fic modeled off of big ones from the GoT/aSoIaF fandom like The Lost Emperor by House_Blackfyre and A Song for Dragons by Doublehex. Both are massive, complex, and stunning fics, fics which I feel are lacking in the PJO fandom. I understand that the GoT/aSoIaF fandom is older, oriented to people in their twenties-and-up, not young adults, but c'mon, the original PJO fans are now college kids. We should be producing higher quality shit, feel me?
> 
> Kingpin K's Journey of a King is doing this pretty well, right now, I believe. With both the depth of words, the grey characters, the focus on character and plots over relationships, they're doing a great job. I just decided to make a fic that was more focused on the ancient/classical world rather than the medieval world. 
> 
> If you want more, I'm currently 5.5k words into chapter 2, and probably only about a third of the way in or so at that. I hope most of the chapters reach 10k+ words each time, but we'll see. Some chapters are slower than others, with less information to push across. In order to keep up the level of interest, however, like A Song for Dragons, there will be many, many viewpoints. Percy, Annabeth, Grover, the Kanes, Piper, Reyna, Frank, Hazel, Clarisse, Leo, etc. Not entirely sure where each one of them will fit into the major story, but I know that they will.
> 
> Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy it so far!
> 
> Striving to provide Southern Hospitality the world over,
> 
> LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy)
> 
> P.S. - I haven't abandoned Preppy and am currently working on a rewrite of about seven to eight chapters of that fic.


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